


every atom of me, every atom of you

by majesdane, vuvalinis



Category: Motherland: Fort Salem (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Black Mirror Episode: s03e04 San Junipero, Angst and Fluff and Smut, F/F, Grief/Mourning, Happy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:55:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 35,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27273781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/majesdane/pseuds/majesdane, https://archiveofourown.org/users/vuvalinis/pseuds/vuvalinis
Summary: Here is where it almost ends: on a beach, in the last dregs of daylight, at the lip of a sea limned in gold.(Alternatively, you might say: here is where it almost begins.)Heaven is a place on Earth. Raelle, Scylla, and San Junipero.
Relationships: Raelle Collar/Scylla Ramshorn
Comments: 36
Kudos: 173





	every atom of me, every atom of you

i want you to imagine me there to greet you, our lives stretched out ahead of us, a perpetual sunrise.  
— _carol_ (2015)

i imagined it all, waiting for you.  
— _portrait of a lady on fire_ (2019)

* * *

Here is where it almost ends: on a beach, in the last dregs of daylight, at the lip of a sea limned in gold.

(Alternatively, you might say: here is where it almost _begins_.)

When Scylla opens her eyes and sees a flock of seagulls wheeling overhead—their bodies painted black in the dimming light, like shadows come untethered from the earth—her first thought is that it _is_ the end. The end, or, more likely, whatever comes after: there’s no other way to explain any of it. Not the way she’s suddenly wrapped in the cool quiet of a summer evening, with the smell of the ocean and the rhythmic _hush, hush_ of waves lapping at the shore. Not when the last thing she remembers is—

(Rain pouring river-thick between the trees in a Congolese jungle as her platoon leader shouts something, eyes moon-wide and frantic; a dark angry scribble on the horizon drowning it all out, absolutely all of it, with a sound like an approaching freight train—)

She shakes herself, as if the memory has no more substance than the grains of sand clinging to her bare calves.

It seems to work—when she pulls herself into a sitting position and takes a good look at her surroundings for the first time, it’s suddenly hard to remember why she was so confused to be here in the first place.

Because she’s at the beach again. The place she’s dreamed of returning to since she was small, long before the murder of her parents had a chance to gild her memories of it. And while this _isn’t_ Labor-in-Pain—still easy to tell, despite the poor light—it’s the beach, and it’s beautiful. The taste of the air is familiar, and the salty breeze plays gently with her curls, and the sinking sun is burning the sea with fiery gold; and Scylla knows enough about beginnings and endings to understand that one is always hidden within the other, depending on one’s point of view.

She’s never given much thought to what being dead might look like, but she’s pretty confident this is it. But for all that, she can’t say that she minds it so far.

(And if there _is_ something more sinister lurking behind all this—well, Scylla’s known for being an observant student. The only way to find out, she knows, is to head right in.)

(So she does.)

*****

This isn’t somewhere Scylla’s ever been before, and yet she finds herself struck with an odd sense of déjà vu.

She walks a little, trying to find her bearings. There’s something not quite right about this place, but she can’t put her finger on what it is exactly. It feels . . . her mind reaches for an appropriate description, finally settles on _out of time_. It reminds her of some of the sleepy New England towns she’s been to, the ones where old and new buildings and streets are cobbled together side-by-side like a patchwork quilt. 

Once she leaves the beach—climbing over sand dunes and finding a salt-faded boardwalk—she follows the sound of the crowd and cars. There’s people everywhere: sitting outside cafes, spilling out into the streets as they exit stores, milling around crosswalks. A few of them bump into Scylla as they pass by, murmuring an _excuse me_ , hands up apologetically.

It doesn’t feel like a normal city; the calmness is unsettling.

Everyone’s dressed in nondescript clothing; vaguely vintage, but not any older than three or four decades ago. And to make matters more perplexing, Scylla hasn’t seen any women sporting military outfits—dress blues or otherwise. Usually in places like this one can’t go more than five feet without tripping over some steely-eyed veteran or an exhausted cadet home on furlough.

She’s not quite sure what to do with _that_ particular piece of information. A part of her—the part that will _always_ be running, always looking over her shoulder for the Military Police—is relieved. But she’s equally suspicious. The lack of military presence would present a perfect safe haven for the Camarilla. 

Or anyone else, for that matter.

But Scylla hasn’t noticed any telltale signs of a Spree presence either. No sigils carefully etched indiscreetly on doorways or crafted into street signs.

(Where _is_ she?)

She wanders aimlessly until the sky turns from bright reds and yellows to dusky hues of blue and gray. Streetlights begin to flicker on, and the city becomes awash in neon. The new settling darkness makes Scylla acutely aware that she needs to find somewhere to stay for the evening, even if that _does_ just mean hunkering down in an abandoned building somewhere. 

“Hey!” 

Scylla starts, whirling around and instantly on alert. But she relaxes when she realizes that the greeting wasn’t meant for her, as she watches a lanky brunette cross the street and join a group of—what Scylla presumes are—her friends.

On a whim she follows them at a distance, curious to see where they’re going. She catches bits and pieces of conversation, but it’s all banal talk that means nothing to her. 

She trails them for a few blocks until they arrive at a large building, the neon-pastel sign proclaiming it to be _Tucker’s_. The doors are thrown wide open and the steady pulse of a bass echoes out into the night. Scylla watches the group enter, fading inside. 

Scylla hesitates. She doesn’t like being in crowds; they don’t feel safe.

(Even now she hasn’t forgotten the sickening crunch of bones and flesh meeting concrete, bodies piling up around her. The glassy stares and dark, pooling blood.)

But after the day she’s had, she really wants a drink. Something to settle her. Besides, she might be able to glean some information from the bartender—or maybe a few friendly patrons, alcohol loosening their tongues. 

Inside, the club is dark and loud. In the center is a large dance floor, nearly full. Scylla threads her way through the crowd, heading towards the bar. On the way she passes a smattering of old arcade machines. She reached out to touch controllers and buttons, enjoying the nostalgic sensation of cool, weathered plastic.

At the bar, she perches on one of the empty seats and orders a Coke. The bartender shrugs when she waves off his suggestion of alcohol; she needs to keep her wits about her.

She nurses her drink when it arrives, staring at the wet ring the glass leaves on the bar top, and relishes a tiny moment of peace before she has to slip back into herself and be on alert.

“You look lost,” a voice says, next to Scylla’s ear. 

A thin blonde girl holding a pint of beer slides into the seat beside Scylla’s. She cocks her head, giving Scylla a once over. “Are you new here? I don’t recognize you.”

“Do you know everyone here?” Scylla asks dryly. 

The blonde grins. “No. But a pretty face like yours? It’d be hard to forget.”

 _Oh_ , Scylla realizes, the tips of her ears growing hot.

This girl is _flirting_. 

She’s momentarily caught off guard; it’s been a long time since anyone flirted with her. Not since Porter, and _that_ was an unmitigated disaster. Usually Scylla’s the one doing all the heavy lifting, trying to charm information out of someone. 

“I’m Scylla,” she says, returning the grin with a smile of her own.

The blonde’s name is Raelle Collar.

She has straw-gold hair braided in rows on one side of her head, a scar along her jaw, and blue eyes that squint with mischief when she smiles. She’s from the Cession, she tells Scylla, though that’s obvious from her drawl and clothes. She’s dressed in an oversized plaid shirt and gray tank top. Her jeans are ripped and faded, her boots scuffed and dull. Scylla recalls wearing something similar during her own small stint in the Cession.

“I answered the Call when I was eighteen. Lived at Fort Salem for a little while,” Raelle says. Her mouth twists into a slight scowl. “Well, if you can call that _living_.”

So, a witch then. Scylla should have guessed from the braids, but she’s learned never to assume. 

“This is my permanent residence now, though,” Raelle continues, gesturing with her hands. That lop-sided grin is back. “San Junipero. Feels like a dream.” 

That’s odd. Scylla’s known many Dodgers and deserters, and Raelle doesn’t act like any of them. She’s too honest, too relaxed. The only other option on the table is that she somehow wrangled a special dispensation. But when Scylla asks _that_ question, Raelle pauses, mid-sip.

“You really _don’t_ know where we are, huh?” she asks, frowning. “How can you not—?” She fixes Scylla with a strange look. “Scylla. What’s the last thing you remember before you woke up here?”

Scylla remembers fat raindrops hitting her square in the face, her clothes soaked through to the bone. The platoon leader shouting against the roar of wind and rain. Then . . . an odd wailing sound, too horrible to describe. She clamped her hands over her ears to drown out the sound of the Disruptive Seed. A sudden, sharp pain, and—

Something inside Scylla clicks, like the tumblers of a lock sliding into place. 

She knows exactly where she is.

*****

“I’m not sure you’re dead,” Raelle says slowly, rubbing the back of her neck, brows knitted in thought. “Well, I—I’m not sure. But it’s strange, you not knowing where you were. Everyone knows as soon as they arrive.”

“Maybe I’m more like a tourist,” Scylla offers lightly. “Just passing through.”

(Humor’s always been her go-to in stressful situations.)

“Maybe.” Raelle still looks uncertain. She traces her fingers anxiously around and around the rim of her glass as she adds, “I didn’t realize this was the type of place you _could_ just, you know. Pass through.”

And Scylla sobers, just a little.

Because what she knows of this place—what she learned from her Necro studies in War College—is that you _can’t_ just pass through it. You’re either here or you’re there, in one world or the next. Earth or the Summerlands ( _San Junipero_ , she reminds herself; Raelle called it San Junipero), and never the twain shall meet, except for once a year on Samhain. Only then, when the veil between the worlds is at its thinnest, might bits and pieces of one leak through to the other, in dreams and in visions and sometimes even in the form of specters of the dead. 

But this isn’t a dream. Or, if it is, it’s remarkably vivid: the music so loud in her ears, the barstool sticky under her thighs, and Raelle, so beautiful even as she frowns at Scylla over the rim of her glass, like Scylla’s a puzzle she’s struggle to solve.

Death may not be as black and white as most people think, but this is a shade of gray Scylla’s never seen before.

All things considered, she’d rather go back to the flirting. _That_ , at least, she understands.

“I didn’t either,” she admits, flashing Raelle a sly, winsome grin. This is easier. This feels _good_ , makes sense. As natural as breathing. “But it looks like I’m here now, doesn’t it?” 

And if the hesitation doesn’t quite leave Raelle’s eyes, it quickly gets lost in her smile, and in the barest hint of a flush staining her cheeks and her neck. 

“I guess you are,” she says. “Can I get you a drink, so long as you’re planning to stay a while?”

*****

Raelle has the bartender make a drink that Scylla can’t even feign interest in, even when he places it at her elbow with a sardonic little flourish. She’d much rather look at Raelle: the industrial bar threaded through her right ear, and the upward turn of her mouth, and the long, elegant fingers cupping her cheek as she rests her chin in the palm of her hand.

“See something you like?” she teases, ticking a single eyebrow up. 

Scylla does look at her drink, then—not because the question makes her bashful (though it does), but because the cocky look on Raelle Collar’s face is having more of an effect on her than she’s ready to admit. 

But fuck it; if this is some kind of limbo, she could wake up at any moment, bleeding out in the middle of a Congolese jungle. And if she’s dead—well, why _shouldn’t_ she respond in kind to the advances of a pretty girl who’s looking her up and down appreciatively, her own drink completely forgotten?

So she lifts her chin, and meets Raelle’s ice-blue eyes dead-on, and says, “Yeah. You,” as if it’s nothing.

She knows she’s said the right thing when Raelle’s smile widens. 

“You’re really from Fort Salem?” she asks, reaching over to push a lock of hair behind Scylla’s ear. Scylla can’t suppress a little shiver as Raelle’s fingers brush just the tiniest bit of bare skin. “I’m sure I never saw you there.”

“There are thousands of girls at Fort Salem,” Scylla points out, amused.

Raelle catches her bottom lip under her front teeth before replying. “I’d have remembered you,” she says, and an answering heat blossoms lazily in Scylla’s lower belly. 

“I am— _was_ —a second year, at War College,” she explains, fumbling for a minute over what’s true, if she’s dead. “Necro. You know how they like to keep us separated from the gen pop.” 

“I never understood why.” 

Scylla shrugs and takes a tentative sip of her drink. She can’t identify what’s in it, but it’s good, and she takes another, longer sip before answering. “Death freaks people out,” she says. “They don’t like to be reminded of it. They like the idea of the Summerlands all right—”

“ _Summerlands._ ” Raelle snorts. “God, I forgot about that one. What a stupid name.” 

“—but they still don’t want to _think_ about it, you know?”

“Don’t see why.” Raelle twirls her straw around in her glass, a thoughtful expression on her face. “San Junipero’s pretty great. Beats getting ground into war meat on the frontlines any day.” She smiles wolfishly at Scylla and wraps her hands around the lapels of her jacket, teasingly tugging her closer. “And you never know when a beautiful girl’s gonna walk into Tucker’s—”

“Oh, stop,” Scylla says, but she can feel the pleased flush taking over her face.

“— _lost_ and _destitute_ and—”

Scylla leans across what little space is left between them and shuts Raelle up with her mouth. Raelle makes a ridiculously endearing little noise of surprise before throwing herself fully into the kiss, curling her hand around the back of Scylla’s neck and gently holding her in place. 

It’s _warm_ and it’s _right_ and it makes Scylla feel so exquisitely awake, every nerve ending singing, that it’s impossible, in this moment, to believe she’s actually dead.

(The thought that follows is worse: that the longer she kisses Raelle, the more it feels like being dead might be the preferable option.)

Raelle’s the one who pulls away first, but barely. Her lips are still close to Scylla’s, breath fanning warm across her face, as she asks, “You wanna get out of here?” 

“And go where?” Scylla asks. She’s having a hard time catching her breath. She doesn’t even care what Raelle’s answer is, doesn’t care if she says the alley behind the bar. Scylla already knows what her response will be.

*****

Raelle takes her to a little house near the beach. 

The outside is unassuming—single story and white-washed, with navy blue shutters and a small back porch overlooking the beach—it looks like it could be a place from anywhere.

But inside it feels cozy and inviting, with sprawling throw rugs and plush furniture. There are knick-knacks scattered everywhere: seashells and bits of driftwood and dried flowers. The decorations present a homey image much softer and understated than Scylla would have expected.

But she likes it. It reminds her of Labor-in-Pain.

(Strangely, the thought is more soothing than stinging.)

Raelle leads her into the bedroom with a kiss then excuses herself, ducking into the bathroom. Scylla listens to the sound of running water as she takes in Raelle’s bedroom. A double-set of big picture windows sit perpendicular to the bed, which is dressed in slate gray sheets and an azure toned comforter. The curtains billow slightly with a gentle evening breeze, the rustle of fabric like the dry scrape of dune grass.

She notices a photograph tucked into the mirror. It’s a woman, probably middle-aged, with dirty blonde hair cut just above her shoulders. She’s leaning against a car, head turned slightly, smiling at someone just off-camera. 

“Who’s that?” Scylla nods in the direction of the photo. “Your mom?”

Raelle makes a flat non-committal sound. Her hands circle Scylla’s waist, pulling her in close.

“Less talking,” she murmurs, against Scylla’s mouth. “More kissing.”

Scylla can hardly argue against _that_. 

They can’t undress fast enough.

Raelle pushes Scylla’s jacket off; Scylla tugs at Raelle’s shirt; fingers fumble to undo belts and zippers—until they’re down to just their underwear. Their kisses are quick and rough and needy.

Nothing else exists for Scylla right now except for the press of Raelle’s mouth on hers, Raelle’s hands gripping her hips. Raelle’s teeth catch Scylla’s lip for a brief second, their tongues meeting. Raelle tastes like beer; wheat and honey. Scylla wraps her arms around Raelle’s neck and leans into her.

All she can think is _more, more, more_.

After a moment Raelle pulls away, panting. She brings her gaze even with Scylla’s. "You’re sure about this?" 

The expression on her face is hesitant and so soft. Scylla feels something bubble up inside her—something beyond the heady lust that’s making her skin buzz. It’s sweeter than that, more docile in nature: affection. The feeling smolders like glowing embers. She’s not used to people being nice to her—even less used to being treated so gently.

She pulls Raelle in for a deep kiss. "I’m sure." 

Not a second later, Raelle guides their bodies towards the bed, letting Scylla fall onto the sheets and inch her way up to rest against the pillows. When Raelle straddles her, Scylla can’t help her hands from creeping ivy-like up the toned thighs. Raelle catches one of her palms and guides it between her legs, hips immediately jerking forward, eyes slipping closed at the mere touch of Scylla’s fingers through her underwear. Scylla watches in anticipation as Raelle bows her head to trail several kisses down the swell of Scylla’s breasts, licking a hardened nipple through the fabric of her bra.

One of Scylla’s hands flies up to grip the back of Raelle’s head. 

She whimpers, the aching between her thighs growing stronger, more urgent. “Raelle. _Please_.”

Raelle must take pity on her. She kisses Scylla once more, _hard_ , before moving to leave several smaller kisses down her stomach then gently urge her thighs apart. Once she hooks one of Scylla’s legs over her shoulder, she presses her lips to Scylla’s center, earning a squirm and a gasp in response.

When her tongue finds Scylla’s clit, licking tentatively, Scylla jerks up with a strangled cry.

“Raelle!”

She tangles her fingers in Raelle’s hair, urging her on. She’s close already, hovering on the cusp of orgasm, so wound up from everything they’ve done so far. It’s been so long since she’s been touched like this—and that, coupled with the steady, flat press of Raelle’s tongue, is enough to send Scylla tumbling over the edge.

She bites down on the inside of her mouth to stifle her cry, shuddering, blood pounding in her ears, her heel digging into the slope of Raelle’s back.

Raelle takes her time coming back up, pressing lazy kisses on the inside of Scylla’s thighs. She drags her tongue around the underside of Scylla’s breast, circles a nipple, sucking lightly.

“Come here,” Scylla says huffs, and cups Raelle’s face in her hands, kissing her.

It’s a sloppy kiss—all tongues and no finesse—and when Scylla pushes her knee up between Raelle’s legs, she shudders again, feeling how wet Raelle is even through her underwear.

She reaches for Raelle’s breast, covering it with her hand. She thumbs the nipple, enjoying the way Raelle’s eyes flutter closed, head back, lips parted slightly.

She kisses her way along Raelle’s collarbone, her hand drifting lower and lower until it comes to rest at Raelle’s hip. Raelle groans, spreading her legs wider to grant Scylla greater purchase. Scylla slides her hand down further, her touch feather-light. Raelle whines and arches into her fingers, which glide easily to her clit and stroke purposefully.

"Scylla," Raelle pants, after a few long moments, pulling Scylla in for a rough kiss. 

Their legs thread together and Scylla moans; Raelle’s hot and slick against her thigh.

"I want to feel you inside me," Raelle says, and Scylla’s happy to meet her request.

She notches her thumb against Raelle’s clit, rolls her hips in time with the thrusting of her fingers. She puts her face against the curve of Raelle’s neck, nips at the soft skin there. Raelle’s fingers curl and tighten in Scylla’s hair. Her breath is warm and damp against Scylla’s ear; staccato pants and words of encouragement.

Scylla quickens her pace just a little, thumb stroking just so―

Raelle lets out a small strangled cry and presses her face against Scylla’s hair as she shudders, her hips jerking, heels digging into the mattress. Scylla keeps her hand in place, moving slower now, loving the feeling of Raelle’s small twitches underneath her as she comes down from the high.

It isn’t until Raelle’s hand settles back on Scylla’s wrist, tugging gently, that Scylla pulls her hand away and lets Raelle pepper her face with kisses.

"Scyl," Raelle says, looking sweetly flushed and satisfied, and the honeyed way she shortens Scylla’s name sounds lovelier than should be allowed.

A few loose strands of hair are plastered to her forehead with sweat; Scylla smiles and brushes them away before leaning down to capture Raelle’s mouth in a slow kiss.

After a few long moments Scylla rolls off of Raelle and onto her side. She can feel how wet she is when she moves and she lets out a small groan, frustrated.

Raelle turns to face her.

"Here," she says, with a small laugh, reaching for Scylla. "Let me―"

They kiss lazily. Raelle’s fingers dance along Scylla’s hip and the side of her thigh. But after a minute Scylla grows impatient, wanting. "Please," she says, almost embarrassed at how desperate she sounds. "I need―"

"Shh," Raelle mumbles, kissing along the angle of her jaw. "I know."

Raelle’s fingers dart forward, seeking her out. Scylla sucks in a breath as they brush against her, softly at first, but then more focused.

Scylla sighs, leaning in for a kiss as Raelle draws her out with her hand.

It doesn’t take long; Scylla’s been half-gone since Raelle murmured that she wanted to feel Scylla’s fingers inside of her. A few minutes of skilled stroking and Scylla’s bursting out against Raelle’s hand, blood pounding in her ears, bottom lip sore from biting down on it.

When Raelle takes her hand away, Scylla catches it and brings Raelle’s fingers to her mouth to lick them clean, eliciting a shaky moan.

*****

They lie together afterwards in a sweaty tangle of arms and legs, too exhausted and content to move. The room is quiet now save for the sound of their ragged breathing as it falls back in sync, and the _hush, hush_ of the ocean outside Raelle’s window. 

Scylla’s got her head on Raelle’s chest, listening to her heartbeat. Like a soft echo of the sea beneath her ear; it makes her feel unexpectedly heavy with emotion. Normally, Scylla can’t bear to be touched like this so soon after sex—she likes her personal space. Likes being able to roll away from her partners and re-gather herself before she has to look them in the eye again. But even though she can’t remember any of those encounters being as intense as this, the thought of untangling herself from Raelle just seems . . . unnecessary. 

It must be San Junipero that’s making her feel this way. None of this really matters, and that’s why it’s all so easy—why _Raelle’s_ so easy.

There can’t be any other reason than that.

Raelle hums with amusement, her fingers combing Scylla’s hair away from the sweat at her temples with exquisite gentleness. “You okay?”

Scylla shifts so she’s draped half on top of Raelle, her chin propped up on Raelle’s chest. Raelle’s eyes are soft, more silver than blue in the wash of moonlight, and her smile is so gentle and soft that Scylla can’t help pulling her close and brushing their lips together before she answers.

“More than okay,” she says. “It was . . . perfect.”

She’s afraid she’s said too much, but Raelle just laughs, sweet and gravelly and utterly without a care. The sound tugs at Scylla’s heart in a dangerous way.

“ _You’re_ perfect,” she says simply, as if it’s the easiest thing in the world to admit. “I can’t believe—I mean.” She pauses, almost sheepish now. “I’m kinda worried that you’re gonna disappear on me.”

And Scylla knows what she means. Even though they’ve only just met—even though the idea of being so attached to _anyone_ is terrifying—she already knows she wants so much more of Raelle. So much more than any of the worlds will be willing to give.

But Raelle’s so pretty in the moonlight, and the expression on her face is so naked and soft and _open_ , and when Scylla takes her hand and laces their fingers together, the words tumble out of her so, so easily.

“Then I won’t disappear,” she promises; and even though they both know it’s not a promise she can keep, the way Raelle’s face lights up makes her think she did something right. “Not if I can help it.” 

*****

Scylla stands at the edge of the water, letting the waves come up and lap around her ankles. 

It’s warm and clear all the way to the bottom.

She’s always liked New England beaches the most, even if the water’s always cold. The picturesque coasts crowded with old Victorian mansions, the jagged clusters of rocks—she can still see it all so perfectly in her mind’s eye no matter how far away she is. She curls her toes in the sand, letting herself get lost in childhood memories.

Her mother, sitting on the rocks at the base of the lighthouse, glasses perched on top of her head, reading some old faded paperback. Her father spinning her around, the two of them laughing with outrageous happiness.

All the ships dotting the horizon: the tiny sailboats, their sails starched white; from a distance they looked like seagulls riding the waves. How many hours had Scylla sat watching them—or the majestic ocean liners or blocky shipping barges—and dreamed of all the far away places they might be going to? If she closes her eyes now, she thinks she can feel her mother’s arms wrapping around her, pulling her into a tight hug, whispering that one day they’d be free.

“You okay?”

Raelle’s voice breaks through the nostalgic haze that’s settled over Scylla’s mind like a blanket of snow. She blinks, then nods, pushing the feelings back into the lockbox of her heart. 

“You had an expression on your face just now. Like—”

But Raelle doesn’t complete the thought, just turns towards the horizon, shading her eyes with her hand.

“It feels like a lifetime since I’ve seen the ocean,” Scylla tells her, shrugging off her thin hoodie and tying it around her waist. “Not since I was a kid. There was this lighthouse—I loved that place. It’s the most beautiful place I’ve ever been.”

“Sounds nice. Wish I could have seen it.”

Scylla can’t help but chuckle. “Presumptive much?” she teases. “I don’t recall saying I’d take you there.”

Raelle adopts an exaggerated wounded expression. “Ouch. Not even after last night?”

“It takes more than one night of good sex to win me over, Private Collar,” Scylla says, in the flattest tone she can imagine. 

“Fine, fine. How about _two_ nights?”

Scylla kicks a spray of water at her. “You’re incorrigible.”

She reaches for Raelle, tugging her in for a rough kiss.

It happens before Scylla can pull away: Raelle tipping them backwards, into the water. Scylla lets out a deeply undignified yelp as they hit the shallow water. She shoves Raelle playfully as she scrambles to sit up, slicking back her wet hair. But she curls her fingers into the front of Raelle’s shirt anyway, as Raelle inches in closer, her eyes bright as the summer sky overhead.

When night rolls around, they end up walking along the beach in their bare feet along the water. Raelle searches for pieces of sea glass, pocketing whatever she can find. She explains to Scylla that she saw a picture of all the glass stored up in a little container; she likes how the light reflected off all the tiny pieces, blue and green and brown.

"I’ve never thought about it until just now," Raelle says, crouching and sifting through a tiny pile of rock and shell fragments. "But it would be nice, don’t you think?"

Scylla tries to picture how that might look. She imagines such a jar sitting on the sill of Raelle’s bedroom window, the morning sunlight drowning the room in an aqueous kaleidoscope of color. She looks down at her feet, helping Raelle to scrounge through the scattered debris washed in by the tide.

They finally settle down on the steps of the back porch, watching as the waves roll in and out, the full moon casting a phosphorescent silver over the landscape. The night sky looks clearer than Scylla’s ever seen before; the stars seem to shine brighter. She points out all the constellations she can remember. Raelle takes a turn when she’s done—but hers are just made up, with elaborate backstories as an extra flourish—and eventually Scylla grabs Raelle and pulls her in for a kiss, laughing as she does so. 

She likes the way their smiles fit together.

It’s been a long time since she’s laughed this much. That warm, comforting glow ignites again in her stomach as Raelle takes her face in her hands, bumping their noses together affectionately when they break apart from the kiss.

"Who taught you all that—the names of the stars?" Raelle asks, her thumb stroking Scylla’s cheek.

Before Scylla can stop herself, she says, "My parents."

“Hm.”

They lapse into silence.

Scylla can _feel_ it in the air, Raelle weighing the decision to ask about her parents. She doesn’t blame Raelle for being curious—Goddess knows there’s a million questions she’d like to ask Raelle, too—but that’s not a conversation Scylla’s ready to have just yet.

So instead she stands, brushing off her shorts and offering a hand to help Raelle up. 

"Come on. It’s getting cold out here."

*****

Raelle’s hair still smells like the ocean, even after she’s showered and climbing into bed, and Scylla inhales deeply, dragging her mouth along the slope of Raelle’s neck in an alternating series of kisses and tiny nips.

Even Raelle’s skin tastes salty.

She thinks of Raelle from earlier that day, stretched out catlike on a beach towel, the morning turning hot and humid as the sun climbed higher in the sky. Raelle, fresh from the water, bathing suit clinging to her skin in every sort of tantalizing way. Raelle, leaning in for a kiss, her mouth briny and wet.

Dream or not, Scylla muses she might only ever think of Raelle now when she sees the ocean. 

(That would be nice.

She’s sorely in need of some happy memories.)

She pulls back just enough to kiss Raelle properly. Raelle’s nails dig into her skin ever so slightly, letting her know that she’s still taking too long, and Scylla chuckles and slides down a bit, her tongue circling once around Raelle’s nipple before she takes it into her mouth completely.

Raelle lets out a low groan and Scylla shifts a bit more, slipping a hand between Raelle’s legs, stroking until at last Raelle finally comes, fingers gripping Scylla’s shoulder hard enough to bruise.

Raelle sighs, combing fingers through Scylla’s hair and gazing at her through heavy-lidded eyes. Scylla smiles and kisses the space between Raelle’s breasts before sliding even lower still.

“Again?” she asks, flashing Raelle a wolfish grin, humming as she licks a path from her belly button to the bony curve of her hip.

Raelle laughs then sighs as Scylla’s tongue runs along the inside of her thigh, right along Raelle’s shiny witch mark. Scylla can feel Raelle’s muscles tensing under her, can feel the way her legs shake from equal parts need and exhaustion. 

"Fuck," Raelle mutters, and Scylla props herself up on her elbows for half a moment just to look at her, flushed and naked on the pale blue sheets.

Raelle looks so beautiful right now that it makes Scylla’s head spin. She sends a silent prayer to the Goddess; if this really is the afterlife, it might not be so bad, always having a gorgeous woman ready to be taken to bed with a glance. 

When she finally presses her tongue against Raelle’s clit, Raelle lets out a stuttered gasp, her hands tangling in Scylla’s hair, and Scylla feels buoyed up with ethereal happiness, warm all the way down to her toes.

Later, Raelle teases her with the lightest of touches, just barely dragging her tongue and fingers across Scylla’s skin, and it’s all Scylla can do to grit her teeth and beg for more. Scylla cups Raelle’s face in her hands and kisses her as sweetly as she can manage. Raelle smiles into it; Scylla kisses her harder.

She drifts off to sleep with Raelle’s fingers stroking along her back, whispers of kisses pressed to her forehead. 

*****

“How far does San Junipero go, exactly?”

They’re lying in the sand on a blanket Raelle found in the linen cupboard in the beach house. It’s late afternoon and the air is cool, driving the heat of the day back into the ground; Scylla’s a pleasant sort of tired, warm and relaxed with her head on Raelle’s stomach, gently rising and falling with the pattern of her breath. 

It’s been like this for days now—days that feel to Scylla like one endlessly long summer afternoon, lazy and fluid and too beautiful to last.

But still, every morning when she wakes, it’s to the pale slope of Raelle’s back, or the blue of her eyes, already glittering with mischief. The warmth of her body and the way she kisses Scylla unhurriedly, as if they have all the time in the world.

For Raelle, of course, that’s true. But with every day that passes, Scylla starts to wonder if the mud and blood and horror of the jungle aren’t coming for her, after all. If, perhaps, the thing she hardly dares to hope for might be true.

(It no longer seems strange to her, either, to hope for death. With what she now knows of it, she’s certain that life couldn’t ever compare.)

But if it is true—if this is going to be her permanent residence now, too—there are a couple of crucial things missing, and, increasingly, they’ve begun to eat at her. 

She feels Raelle shift slightly underneath her. “How far it goes,” she repeats; she sounds thoughtful, and a little surprised. “Huh. Guess I don’t actually know.”

“But you _live_ here,” Scylla points out. She’s thinking of all the parts of San Junipero she’s already seen, all the places she’s already glimpsed from a distance. If it weren’t for Raelle, she’d have already wandered every inch of them, hungry to know the shape of her world.

As if reading her thoughts, Raelle pokes her in the ribs and says, “Yeah, and I’m not exactly _exploring_ when I’m in bed all day with you.”

Scylla tilts her head up so Raelle can see her pretending to pout in sympathy. “Poor you. That sounds awful.”

Raelle laughs and gently pulls her up on the blanket, so they’re lying face to face. “It’s hard work,” she says solemnly, “but someone’s gotta do it.” Her expression suddenly becomes serious. “But really. Why do you want to know?”

Scylla shrugs. “Just curious,” she says, averting her gaze in case Raelle can somehow see the lie in her eyes. “Seems like it’d have to be a pretty big town.”

She can hear in Raelle’s silence that she’s not fooled, but also, that she’s not going to press. Instead, she touches a finger lightly to Scylla’s face, tracing the line of her cheekbone. 

“If you’re looking for someone,” she says quietly, “you should know that you can’t always find them right away. Sometimes it takes some searching.” A bitter note enters her tone. “A lot of searching.”

There’s a little frown of concentration between Raelle’s eyebrows. Scylla wants to reach up with her thumb, to smooth it away. Instead, she asks, “How’d you know I was looking for someone?”

“Everyone’s looking for someone,” Raelle replies, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. Maybe it is. “The only ones who aren’t have already found them.” 

And Scylla desperately wants to ask: _Is that what happened to you?_

Scylla knows with absolute certainty that Raelle would tell her. That she would lay it all bare and hold nothing back, because that’s who Raelle _is_.

But she’s also looking at Scylla with eyes full of quiet, steady patience—like she’d be happy to wait all of eternity for her—and suddenly all Scylla wants is to give her something in return.

So, in a voice that’s barely a whisper, she says, “My mom and dad.”

And Raelle takes her hand and says, “I know.”

*****

Later—after they’ve peeled themselves off of the blanket and made their way back to the beach house—Scylla tells her everything. 

(Well. _Almost_ everything. There are certain things she’s not quite ready to talk about. Even now, she doesn’t know if she’ll ever be.)

(And it’s still not easy, even in this small way, being so open with another person. But more than anyone else she’s ever met, Raelle makes Scylla want to try.)

Raelle just listens. Listens, while Scylla gives her the abridged version of her life before the Army, before San Junipero; and when she gets to the worst part—finding her parents’ bodies cooling on the living room floor—Raelle puts a hand on the back of her neck and rubs circles there with her thumb.

“I’m sorry,” she says simply. “When you didn’t want to talk about them before, I knew it might be something bad, but that—I don’t even know what to say, Scyl.” 

Scylla doesn’t know, either. It’s too enormous and terrible a story for something as small as words to contain; and so she just closes her eyes and leans into Raelle’s touch and hopes it’s enough. The pressure of her fingers on Scylla’s neck, the silence between them, and the weight of everything Scylla’s revealed resting heavy on their shoulders: it’s almost a kind of intimacy, Scylla thinks. Maybe in some ways even deeper than the other kind, the two of them in bed with their hands all over each other. 

She doesn’t know what it means.

(But she must know enough, because it scares the hell out of her.)

Raelle’s next words are tentative, careful. “We could look for them. If you want.” 

And Scylla hesitates.

Because it’s not like she hasn’t thought about her parents, _constantly_ , ever since she figured out where she was. It’s been hanging over her head throughout everything, like a single dark cloud in her summer-blue sky: guilt that she hasn’t gone looking for them herself. And worse—the fear that she might never find them here at all.

If this somehow ends up all being a dream—if her parents aren’t there when she goes looking for them—Scylla’s not sure she could endure it.

And the fear must be written all over her face, because Raelle’s expression immediately softens with understanding. 

“Sometimes it takes time,” she says. “Just so you know. I mean, my mom—she died in combat. Before I got here. And I haven’t—I mean, I’ve _looked_ —” Something flits across her face before she adds, resolute, “That doesn’t mean she’s not here, though.” 

And Scylla wants badly to be able to tell her yes. To say _let’s go look for them, then, you and me together_.

If she was a little braver, she might. But she knows, deep down, that she’s not brave; she’s terrified of what might happen if they can’t be found. Almost worse, she’s terrified of what it would mean if they _can_. She’s spent so long not remembering—not _forgetting_ , but crafting a certain image of her parents in her mind, keeping it close. She’s afraid of disappointment, even as she struggles to imagine what the nature of that disappointment might be.

So she takes the coward’s way out: she shrugs and closes the distance between herself and Raelle with her mouth. She kisses Raelle until she feels her lips turn up in a smile, then pulls away and says, “I believe you.” 

(It’s a flimsy answer, but it makes Raelle’s face light up with pleasure; and that, as far as Scylla’s concerned, is more than good enough for right now.)

*****

They’re younger than she remembers.

In Scylla’s memory, her father’s hair is speckled with more gray. Her mother’s eyes aren’t quite so light. Whenever she pictured them, before now, they always seemed tired and worn down. And perhaps they were—perhaps this is just another part of San Junipero’s magic—but here and now they look young and happy, more so even than in the photograph Scylla kept with her all those years after their murder. 

She stared at that photograph so many times, trying to memorize every detail in her parents’ faces. The harder she tried, the more easily things slipped away. She remembers more the crease lines from so much folding and unfolding, the way the edges became worn and downy to the touch. 

But none of that matters now.

“Mom?” she says, voice wobbling in disbelief. Because she _knows_ it’s them, but there’s still so much about this place that doesn’t feel _real_ and she’s half-afraid of blinking awake any moment now and finding herself cold and alive, eyes stinging with tears in the middle of a fucking jungle with war around her and the smell of death in her nose and alone, alone, alone.

(How many times had she dreamt of them like this, backlit by the sun, smiling and welcoming her with outstretched arms?)

Raelle found them.

She disappeared for a full five days, stealing away like a thief in the night, leaving Scylla alone in bed with only a vague note for comfort: _Need to do something. Don’t worry; I’ll come back._ She signed it with a heart, which Scylla would have found endearing in any other situation.

Raelle’s absence made her mortifyingly anxious. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Raelle—she did, innately, even if she wasn’t sure _why_ —or that she hadn’t been _alone_ before. She has been alone for years now, loose connections and nameless lovers notwithstanding. But this felt different. 

For nearly five days she fretted and simultaneously attempted to _not_ think about Raelle at all. She threw herself into doing exactly what she told Raelle she’d do: traversing San Junipero, trying to discover everything she could. She commandeered a sleek cobalt blue roadster and drove for hours and hours along the coastline with the top down, the wind in her hair. 

It was fun, exploring. Getting to see all the sleepy coastal towns and the infinite stretches of sand and rolling hills. 

Coming back home to Raelle’s empty beach house was a different story. It felt _wrong_ without Raelle there. 

She’d grown used to Raelle. Her easy smiles and her contagious laughter. Her cool blue eyes and the way she was always within reach—or reaching for Scylla. A hand on her hand, hip, or shoulder, the small of her back. And Scylla never saw herself as one to crave domesticity, but they’d settled into each others’ space without even trying. Now she is loath to give it up.

Even for a day.

Even for an hour.

(Goddess. How horrible, to find oneself so dependent on someone else’s presence.)

*****

The morning Raelle returns, Scylla’s sitting on the porch, nursing her second mug of tea.

“You’re _back_ ,” Scylla says, setting her cup aside and throwing her arms around Raelle.

Normally being so openly needy would be embarrassing, but she can’t bring herself to dredge up even an ounce of her usual nonchalance. Raelle smells like smoke and pine and—something else. Scylla can’t quite decipher it.

“Sorry,” Raelle says with a contrite smile, kissing her cheek. “I didn’t think it would take so long.”

“Your note was incredibly vague. Where were you all this time? What were you even _doing_?”

Raelle beams and reaches for Scylla’s hand. “Come on. I’ll show you.”

She leads Scylla around the side of the house, to where an old station wagon is parked in the driveway. 

Scylla thinks: _I didn’t know Raelle had a car_.

And then her heart stops.

And she doesn’t think of anything at all. 

Because her parents are standing right in front of her.

Seeing them again feels strange, like the missing piece of her heart has been glued back into place. Fragile. 

It’s been years now, though, and the piece doesn’t fit quite right anymore, plastered over scar tissue. She’s never felt another sadness so vast and deep as the one that came from losing them. The anger. The guilt. It felt like a hole she could never climb out of. That constant, terrifying pulse of: _nothing will ever be the same again_.

But then her father smiles and says, “Hey, kiddo. We missed you.”

Scylla wants to say _I missed you too_ , but the words are stuck in her throat and her eyes burn with tears and she can do nothing else but fall into her parents’ arms, letting them sweep her up in a tight embrace.

And then they crumple to the floor, all three of them together, and _Goddess_ , they still smell the same—the musky tones of her father’s aftershave, her mother’s faint, floral perfume as she kisses Scylla’s temple through her hair, whispers that everything is going to be okay.

“We’re here now,” she murmurs soothingly, as Scylla buries her face in her mother’s shoulder, heart about to burst. “It’s okay. We’ll never leave you.”

*****

Here, then, is where it finally begins: in a little white house on the beach that Scylla now thinks of as _theirs_. Navy blue shutters and a small back porch overlooking the water. The sound of the ocean and Raelle’s arms around her when she falls asleep—and in the morning, her sleepy grin, and the way she says _hey, beautiful_ and pulls Scylla against her.

A path to the beach lined with pearl-skinned seashells that wink when they catch the sun. The sea in all its shifting blues and greens; and there, at the edge of it, Scylla’s parents, waving hello as they walk along the shore.

It’s the kind of life that Scylla’s always dreamed of, in the most abstract of ways. No running and hiding; no conscription and no Military Police. When she lived it was impossible to even imagine a world without such things; as her mother liked to say, _you might as well wish for the moon_. 

(The irony of such a world only being possible after her death isn’t lost on her, either.)

Now she wakes up every morning with nothing but the brilliant San Junipero sun hanging over her head, and in the absence of all that fear and uncertainty, new things are taking root. Happiness, and safety, and an overwhelming feeling of _wholeness_ she’d thought was lost forever the moment her parents were murdered. 

And something else. A feeling even bigger than all of that, which Scylla now understands she’s been denying for quite some time. She figures it makes sense, in a way; it’s been so long since anybody’s loved her, she forgot what it felt like. Forgot that she could _let_ herself feel it, when it came.

But when Raelle smiles at her—when she bites her own lip before she kisses Scylla, or throws an arm around her in her sleep—Scylla feels, more and more, like she’s starting to remember.

Her father seems to think so, too. He’s got a look in his eye one morning as they’re walking along the beach together, letting Raelle and Scylla’s mother fall behind as they make for the cliffs on the northern side. Scylla can tell he wants to talk about something, but is content to wait for her to ask.

So she indulges him: “I can hear you thinking.”

He gives her a look like _what-who-me?_ “I’m not thinking of anything at all,” he says. He’s almost jovial, walking through the wet sand at the water’s edge with a spring in his step. Was he ever so lighthearted, when he was alive? “My mind is a perfect blank.”

“ _Dad_ —”

“Although, come to think of it, I _was_ thinking—earlier, of course—about that girl of yours—”

Scylla flushes with pleasure at that, and hopes—in an offhand, embarrassed way—that her father didn’t notice. Based on the way his grin grows even wider and he pointedly doesn’t look at her though, he absolutely _did_.

“She’s a good one, kid,” he says. “She sure loves you.”

And there it is, out in the open—not twenty feet from where Raelle and Scylla’s mother are chatting, oblivious to all of it. The thing Scylla’s been afraid to look in the eye.

“You think?” she asks, so softly that she’s not sure, at first, her father hears her at all.

But he turns to her, surprised. “You don’t?” he asks, brow furrowed. “I mean, I thought especially when she came and found us for you—”

It’s not a criticism, the way he says it—and Scylla knows he would never, _ever_ hold it against her—but in spite of all that, something inside her cringes at his phrasing.

Raelle looking for her parents when Scylla was too afraid to is perhaps the purest gift she’s ever received (and ever _will_ receive, she knows), but part of her thinks she should have been there, too. Maybe, if she had, it wouldn’t have taken Raelle as long as it did—not that it took her terribly long, but still. She asked Raelle about it after, agog that she managed to locate two perfect strangers in a town full of unnamed thousands.

“You didn’t even know what they looked like,” Scylla repeated, over and over again. “Did I even tell you their _names?”_

Raelle’s response was paired with a mysterious shrug. “Just how San Junipero works, Scyl,” she said. “You want something, eventually it comes to you.” 

(And that had sort of made sense, if only for this reason: Scylla has _always_ wanted someone like Raelle. If she didn’t know it before they met, she certainly knows it now.)

“I do,” she tells her father now, the words coming out without thought. Warmth spreads to every part of her body. Like lying in the sand at the end of a summer day, basking in the last remnants of heat as the sun goes down. “I wasn’t sure for a while, but I think . . .”

Her father watches her with that knowing twinkle still in his eye. “Well,” he says, nonchalant. “Might want to think about letting her know. That’s all I’m saying.”

His watch starts to beep out a slow, rhythmic alarm, but he keeps smiling at her, giving no indication he’s noticed. Scylla grins back at him for a moment before indicating the watch. “What’s that for?”

“What’s what for?”

“The alarm.”

A creeping unease begins somewhere in the back of her mind, because the beeping doesn’t really _sound_ like it’s coming from his wrist at all. It might be all around them, broadcast over the beach; and for an alarm, its chirpy little reports are _slow_. Almost sleepy: like a metronome, ticking away on its lowest setting. 

Her father is looking at her strangely, now; and when she glances over her shoulder at her mother and Raelle, neither of them are reacting as if they heard anything, either. 

“Think maybe you’ve been out in the sun too long,” her dad teases, but there’s a noticeable edge to his voice. He calls to Raelle and her mother: “Guys? Wanna start heading back now?”

And the beeping continues, steady as breathing.

*****

They’re sitting in a little café, just off of Main Street. 

Raelle is the one who suggested going out for breakfast. She’s _also_ responsible for them arriving later than planned—they only just managed to snatch up the last empty table on the veranda. It was Raelle who tugged Scylla into the shower with her two hours earlier, dropping to her knees, tongue skimming along the flexing muscle of Scylla’s thigh.

Scylla has tried to put the strangeness from a few days ago out of her mind, but she can’t shake the unsettling feeling that something isn’t quite right. Everyone around her is laughing and enjoying themselves, though, completely at ease.

Maybe she’s being overly paranoid.

She’s always been a self-sabotager. 

“We should go out more,” Raelle said earlier, toweling her hair. 

“Bored of me already?” Scylla asked, plucking the towel from Raelle’s hands and kissing her.

Raelle laughed. “Not at all. But San Junipero is _forever_. And there’s a whole world out there.”

 _I don’t care about the rest of the world_ , Scylla wanted to say. _Only you_.

But she wasn’t sixteen and willing to indulge in that kind of ridiculous saccharine sentiment , and a part of her knew Raelle was right, so she helped Raelle comb and braid her hair, finally ushering them both out the door an hour later than planned. 

“Excuse me,” a voice says, and Scylla looks up to see a girl with beige skin and sparkling umber eyes that compliment her wide smile. The girl points to the empty chairs at their table. “Do you mind sharing? We’ve been waiting for an open table for _ages_.”

Scylla’s about to politely decline—she’s never quite grown out of her wariness with strangers, and she’s still in that greedy stage of wanting Raelle all to herself—but before she can say anything, Raelle chirps out a _Sure!_ and slides her chair closer to Scylla’s to make room. 

“Thanks!” The girl beams at them, then turns to wave to another girl who’s picking her way through the crowd. “Babe, look! I got us some seats.”

It’s more company than Scylla’s had in—well, forever, really. She spent her years at Fort Salem on her own as much as possible, choosing to devote her free time to helping Izadora in the Necro facilities rather than fraternizing with her fellow cadets. She didn’t want to make friends—didn’t see a need to. Friendships led to attachments, and attachments weren’t something she could stand to have. Not when the Spree could come calling any minute, handing down orders to betray those very same people.

She relaxes just a little as Raelle’s hand finds hers under the table, their fingers interlocking.

“I’m Raelle. And this is Scylla, my girlfriend.”

Scylla’s heart flutters a little at the introduction; it’s ridiculous, really, but this is the first time Raelle’s ever used the word _girlfriend_. It makes her feel like a teenager, flush and giddy with warmth. 

The girl who asked about their seats is named Glory. She gestures to her companion, a preppy-looking girl with dark curly hair and a self-approving grin. “This is Libba.”

Libba cocks an eyebrow, giving Raelle a once over. “You look familiar,” she says. “Weren’t you part of Bellweather’s Unit?”

The tips of Raelle’s ears grow pink. “The one and only.” She looks down at her hands, clearly uncomfortable. “Didn’t work out so well.” 

It occurs to Scylla, suddenly, that she and Raelle have rarely spoken about their time at Fort Salem. On occasion Raelle will mention a funny anecdote from Basic, or Scylla will find herself rattling off information she remembers from her Necro lessons when they stumble upon interesting mushrooms while hiking the lush forests that frame the northwest outskirts of town. 

Scylla hasn’t _intentionally_ avoided talking about her past—though Goddess knows there’s plenty she’d be comfortable never discussing, ever—but she always assumed those kinds of conversations would come naturally, over time. 

She doesn’t even know how Raelle died. Asking about someone’s death feels like a sensitive subject. Besides, the details of something like that hardly matter: Raelle’s here in San Junipero now, real and present—

(Though what _real_ and _present_ constitutes in the afterlife, Scylla doesn’t know.)

—and Scylla doesn’t care about anything else. 

She hasn’t, anyway, until now.

“We’re going to Tucker’s later, if you’d like to meet us there,” Glory says a little while later, as they dig into breakfast. 

Despite the initial awkwardness, things are rather pleasant. _Congenial_ , even, if Scylla were to coax a more satisfying description out of the conversation—even though that conversation’s mostly been between Raelle and Glory, with an occasional playfully snarky comment from Libba.

Scylla doesn’t mind at all, though; she doesn’t like the pressure of carrying a conversation. She prefers to observe; and it’s amusing, the way Glory and Libba play off each other, like an old married couple.

(She can’t help but look at Raelle and want the same thing.)

She watches Raelle peel the rind off an orange. “Could be fun,” she says slowly, noting the way Raelle’s eyebrows lift in surprise. “It’s been a while since we’ve been.”

*****

“Didn’t your father ever teach you how to do that?” Scylla teases, as Raelle fumbles with her tie. She reaches forward, undoing the knotted mess that Raelle’s made and tying it neatly. 

“I’ve never had an occasion to wear one before,” Raelle grumbles, smoothing her shirt and tie down with her hand and admiring herself in the mirror.

Scylla likes seeing Raelle like this, all cleaned up in a navy blue suit and a crisp, white button down. If she uses her imagination she can envision Raelle in her military dress blues.

She wishes she could have seen a sight like that for herself. And usually, even the mere thought of the military would make Scylla’s skin crawl. But somehow, when it involves Raelle, it doesn’t seem all that bad.

Maybe life at Fort Salem would’ve been more tolerable if they were together. Or maybe it’s just being in San Junipero, far removed from all the hurt, that makes her nostalgic for something that never existed.

“They didn’t have school dances in the Cession?” she asks, sitting still on the bed in a retro floral print dress while Raelle braids her hair.

In life, Scylla rarely adhered to the traditional cultural norms for witches. At first it was a means of survival—being on the run from the Military Police meant blending in seamlessly with civilians—but, later on, it became a small act of defiance. A subtle way of flaunting her disinterest in everything Sarah Alder and the military had to offer.

But now, in death, she wears her hair pulled back in a half-bun, Raelle knotting two small braids on each side. 

“Oh, there were dances.” Raelle’s fingers brush along the nape of Scylla’s neck. “Wouldn’t be caught dead at any of them though. Kids weren’t too friendly.” A pause, then, smarmily she adds, “But if I’d gone to school with _you_ , maybe—”

Scylla turns and pulls Raelle in by her tie, kissing her soundly. “You’re an impossible flirt, Raelle Collar.”

*****

Tucker’s is already bustling with activity when they arrive, the sun having set only a half hour ago.

“I’ll go get us drinks.” Raelle kisses Scylla’s cheek before darting away.

Scylla’s left standing along the back wall, toying with the seashell necklace her parents gave her before they left the other day. When she was little she had a similar one, also a gift from her parents, to remember their idyllic week at Labor-in-Pain. 

She scans the crowd, watching Raelle jostling at the bar. Raelle, as if sensing her gaze, turns to flash her a quick smile.

Scylla feels warm all the way down to her toes.

"Hello again," a voice says beside her, and Scylla turns to see Glory standing next to her with a cosmopolitan in hand. “Lucky I was able to find you; it’s so busy tonight!”

She’s wearing an olive dress that brings out the gold and green flecks in her eyes, her hair done up in a waterfall braid. Libba’s behind her in a black and white letterman jacket, fitted leather pants, and black desert boots. Her aviator sunglasses are tucked into the collar of her white t-shirt. It’s an effortlessly casual look that immediately screams _money_ ; it seems that even in death, High Atlantics can’t help but show off.

Raelle joins them in an instant with drinks in hand; a rum and Coke for Scylla and a beer for herself, the glass dripping with condensation. Scylla barely has a chance to kiss Raelle hello before Libba’s spiriting her away for a round of pool, leaving Scylla alone with Glory.

“Sorry,” Glory says apologetically, nodding in Raelle and Libba’s direction. “Libba’s always begging me to play, but I’m awful at it.”

“It’s no problem.” Scylla doesn’t like being left alone with relative strangers, but Glory is nice enough. And, judging from their conversation that morning, she might know things about Raelle.

But Scylla would feel foolish asking outright, so she eases into it: “So. How did you and Libba meet?”

“Long story. And Libba’s much better at telling it than I am.” Glory chuckles. “The short of it is: we were at Fort Salem together. But isn’t that pretty much every witches’ story?”

Scylla shrugs, humming noncommittally. “Were you there with Raelle?” she asks lightly. “Libba mentioned something about a Bellweather Unit.”

Glory nods, stirring the contents of her glass. “The three of us were in the same platoon during Basic. All different Units, but we both knew Raelle because of her Unit-mates. One of them was my best friend from back home in California. The other—Abigail Bellweather—was a High Atlantic like Libba.” She pauses to take a drink. “Honestly, I rarely saw Raelle outside of training. When she bothered to show up she pretty much kept to herself. That’s why I didn’t recognize her at breakfast—not until Libba said something.” 

Scylla takes a sip of her drink, relishing the way it burns going down her throat. “What went down with them? The Bellweather Unit. Sounded bad.”

Glory hesitates, looking uncomfortable. “I guess she hasn’t told you much, huh?” She thumbs the edge of her glass. “You should ask her.”

Scylla looks over to where Raelle is leaning against the pool table, laughing at something Libba’s saying. She looks so beautiful in the pale neon light, her jacket shrugged off and discarded on a chair, her shirt sleeves rolled up. Her expression is so carefree; Scylla’s heart twinges in sympathy at the thought of Raelle’s last few years being unhappy.

Raelle’s mentioned her mom before, but Scylla’s never pressed—she’s always been content to give Raelle a wide berth in that respect. Now, though, coupled with a pleasant buzz and the little information Glory’s offered up, she feels a deep _tug_ of longing to know everything about Raelle’s life from before. 

But equally as strong is the desire to tamp down her curiosity and let the past _be_. With each day that passes, Scylla feels increasingly detached from the girl she once was; sometimes she isn’t sure if that girl ever even existed in the first place.

(Who she was before—Raelle wouldn’t even like that girl.)

A loud sound of beeping jostles Scylla violently from her reverie. 

But it’s only one of the arcade machines going off a few feet away; a group of boys point and shout out instructions excitedly to their friend who’s jabbing away furiously at the controls. 

“You okay?” Glory stares at her, mouth a thin line of concern. “You looked startled for a moment.”

Scylla laughs nervously. She downs the rest of her drink in a gulp, wiping her mouth on the back of a trembling hand and clears her throat, adopting a casual tone. “Have you ever noticed anything weird about this place?”

Glory’s eyebrows scrunch together. “Weird? Hm. I don’t—I’m not sure what you mean.”

Scylla waves her off, as she spots Raelle and Libba heading back. “Don’t worry about it,” she says, sliding over to make room for Raelle, who leans in to steal a kiss, her arm sliding around Scylla’s waist. “Having fun?” 

“With you? Always.”

“Oh? All you’ve done this evening is make me wait ever so patiently for a dance,” Scylla teases, nudging her in the ribs. 

Raelle makes a face. “I’m not really a dancer,” she says warily. 

“Live a little!” Scylla giggles, nudging Raelle out of the booth. “Come on. Let’s go.”

She grabs Raelle’s elbow and tugs her in the direction of the dance floor. When they reach the center she stops, taking Raelle’s hands in her own.

“It’s easy. Here, let me.” She places Raelle’s hands on her hip and shoulder. “Just like that,” Scylla encourages with a smile, as Raelle’s hand settles on the small of her back, holding her steady. “Nothing to it.”

“It’s . . . nice," Raelle says, so sweetly it makes Scylla feel light-headed. “This is the first time I’ve ever slow-danced with a girl.”

“First time for everything.”

“Yeah.” Raelle’s eyes are bright, even in the semi-darkness. “But I’m glad it’s with you.”

They dance in silence for a few moments, swaying in time to the music.

“It was pretty lonely before you got here,” Raelle confesses quietly. She sounds a little sad. “There were some girls—” Raelle flushes prettily at that, averting her gaze for a second, “but it didn’t mean anything. Mostly I was looking for my mom. Just me . . . and no one else.”

“Well, _I’m_ here now,” Scylla tells her gently, resting their foreheads together. “And I’m never leaving.”

Scylla hasn’t been certain of much in her life, but she knows she’s absolutely certain of _this_. San Junipero could come crashing down around them right now and she wouldn’t let go of Raelle’s hand. There’s something so inherently wonderful in finally having something that’s all hers. All the ridiculous pop love songs from her youth come to mind when she thinks of Raelle. She’s never felt this way about anyone before. 

She would have died for her parents. For the cause. She _did_. But Raelle makes her feel brighter than that. 

Scylla flushes when Raelle looks at her.

Raelle laughs; her heart swells.

She thinks, _Goddess, I want you. I_ love _you._

Everything is perfect. It feels impossible to believe. But there’s no other way to put it. And Scylla’s liked Raelle from the first moment they met—but it’s in this moment she knows for certain that it’s _love_. Because out of all the places Scylla could have ever wished to be, and with anyone in the world, she doesn’t want to be anywhere else but here, with Raelle.

She noses the hair away from Raelle’s neck and presses a kiss to the space there.

“Raelle,” she murmurs. “Imé yénà."

She can feel Raelle’s smile when they kiss.

“What does that mean?” Raelle asks.

Scylla laughs, kisses her again. “It means you’re mine.”

(She’s forgotten all about that moment on the beach.)

*****

What she hasn’t forgotten, but wishes she could: that strange conversation with Glory at the bar. The question, apparently up to Scylla to answer, of who Raelle was before San Junipero. Of how that beautiful, furious soldier—whom Scylla likes to picture with fire in her eyes and an insolent set to her jaw—ended up here in the first place.

(The thing is: Scylla already knows that story. She heard it a thousand times before she ever enlisted: witches die young on the front lines. It happens all the goddamn time.)

(The thing is: none of those witches were _Raelle_.)

For three days she almost manages to put it out of her mind. She wakes up every morning curled around Raelle like a vine, and remembers she’s in love, and that the whole of paradise is out there waiting for them; it seems the worst sort of ingratitude to muddy those waters with the kinds of questions she wants to ask.

So she doesn’t.

She watches the sunrise. Goes for long walks with her parents. Laughs in the backseat of the car with Glory while Raelle drives them recklessly through town, squabbling with Libba over the radio. She dances with Raelle at Tucker’s till dawn paints the sky with streaks of orange, and then presses her into the alleyway wall and kisses her breathless; and if the memory of Glory saying _you should ask her_ happens to creep back in, she shoves it away with both hands.

It’s easy, here, not to think about the bad things. Whenever Raelle flashes her that crooked smile—from across the beach, or with her head half-pressed into a pillow, or on her knees with her head between Scylla’s legs—she feels guilty all over again for wanting to ask at all.

Because Raelle’s happy, and whole, and if it’s strange to be so in love with someone while only knowing half of their story—well. It’s a ’strange’ Scylla thinks she can live with.

(It’s easy not to think about the bad things. Right up until it isn’t anymore.)

On the third night, Raelle decides they should take a ride up to the bluffs. “You can see all of San Junipero from up there,” she says. “It glitters.”

“It _glitters?”_ Scylla repeats, amused. 

“Trust me. It’s the prettiest view in town.” Raelle gives her a slow, appraising look, then adds, “Well, _second_ prettiest, actually.”

(Scylla’s not really in a position to argue, after that.)

It’s dark and cold up on the bluffs, but somehow not lonely. There’s something breathlessly lovely about the still and the quiet and the hard gleam of the stars over their heads—something that reminds Scylla of the New Year’s Eve she spent with her parents in the Cession when she was young. The air was cold like this, and so silent; and it was late, way past her bedtime, but her parents ushered her out to the field where they were shooting off fireworks. She can still remember them—Roman candles and Catherine wheels and fountains that looked like scribbled suns made of light. She can still remember the way they lit up her eyes.

There aren’t any fireworks here tonight, but it doesn’t matter. San Junipero glitters at their feet just like Raelle promised: a net of light thrown across the blackness of land and sea, rambling on for what looks like forever. It’s beautiful.

But Scylla finds she likes the view beside her better: Raelle with her hair mussed from the windy drive, looking down at it all with the light of eternity reflected in her eyes.

They make love in the backseat of the car like teenagers, half-undressed, all fumbling and hot panting, the windows steaming up from their exertions. Scylla grinds against Raelle’s thigh and fingers until she _does_ see fireworks after all. 

Later, they spread out a blanket on the hood of the car and lie in comfortable silence, listening to the twin sounds of the breeze rustling through trees and the distant crash of waves on the shore. 

“Sometimes I still can’t believe it’s real,” Raelle murmurs, so softly that for a moment, Scylla thinks she’s fallen asleep.

Raelle does that sometimes—mumbles nonsense in her sleep, to Scylla’s endless amusement—but when she sneaks a glance over, Raelle’s eyes are wide open, staring up at the field of stars above their heads with a look of dreamy-eyed wonder. 

So Scylla gives her hand a squeeze—partly to prompt a squeeze back, affirming that yes, she’s fully awake—and teases, “Which part? Me?”

“All of it.”

Raelle turns her head to look Scylla in the eye. Her smile is warm and lazy, but there’s a gravity to it, too—a certain look in her eye that tells Scylla she’s not flirting or playing. “San Junipero. You. Tonight.” She pauses thoughtfully, biting her lip. “I always knew, right—I _always_ knew I had a sticky end coming, sooner or later. But this—” she shakes her head and laughs ruefully. “I never imagined what could come after.” 

She kisses Scylla on the forehead, so swiftly that Scylla barely registers the touch.

She’s stuck on the previous sentence. It’s the most she’s ever heard Raelle talk about her own death, and it occurs to her, then, that maybe she doesn’t have to ask Raelle to rip open old wounds for her, after all. Maybe this is Raelle offering her past up freely.

“Tell me what happened?” she asks softly, her heart knocking so hard against her rib cage that Raelle might just be able to hear it. 

Raelle’s silent for so long that Scylla becomes certain she’s breached some unspoken rule of San Junipero, after all. But then she lets out a long breath and replies, more to the sky than to Scylla, “It’s not a nice story.”

“You don’t have to tell it,” Scylla replies, too quickly. “We can just forget the whole thing.”

“But you’ll still want to know.”

“I want to know everything about you.” It’s the most honest answer she can give, at this moment. Maybe the most honest she’s ever been with another person. “All of it. The bad stuff, too.”

She relaxes a little when Raelle starts stroking the back of her hand with her thumb. And it’s not that she thought Raelle would be _angry_ with her for asking, necessarily, but—well. 

(There’s so much about being dead that she hasn’t had the _time_ to understand.)

“Scyl,” Raelle murmurs, in that same dazed voice as before. 

“I’m here.” Scylla squeezes her hand again. It feels like the only solid thing in the world. Up here, with the dark mouth of the sea below and the blackness of the sky above, it’d be easy—if not for the touch of Raelle’s hand—to feel like she was floating through space, untethered. 

Raelle chuckles, then, and Scylla’s heart constricts at how sad and small the sound is.

“I just keep thinking,” Raelle says. “About Fort Salem. About you. About . . .” Scylla feels more than sees her shrug. “I don’t know. There’s no point wishing things were different, but sometimes I do. Sometimes I wish I’d known you back then.” She pauses, and Scylla realizes in the silence that she’s been holding her breath, waiting. “I think my whole life would’ve been better, honestly.” 

And it’s achingly, burningly sweet—the kind of words that would make her melt, if she didn’t know they were completely untrue. The way Raelle talks about her, as if she’s _good,_ is so far removed from what Scylla knows herself to be.

She shifts uncomfortably in place. Can’t help but laugh dryly. 

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” she says. “I was . . . _angry_.”

As soon as the words leave her mouth she knows she’s said too much—brushed right up against the list of things she doesn’t want to talk about, _ever_. She knows it in the way Raelle cranes her neck up to look at her, in the note of surprise when she says, “I mean, I was angry, too. Never—I mean, don’t take this the wrong way, but I never would’ve guessed that about _you_.” 

(There’s an expectancy in the silence that follows, and Scylla mentally curses herself. She’s wanted so badly to know everything there is to know about Raelle, but it never occurred to her that Raelle might want the same thing from her.)

She settles for deflection. “I could say the same of you.”

It’s not really true—Raelle’s always given off a sense of fire—but right now, she just needs Raelle to talk about herself instead of asking questions.

It seems to work: Raelle shifts, pulling her knees up to her chest. “My dad was—is—a civilian,” she explains. “My mom married him and had me knowing the Army would punish her for it. They cut her pension, had her on constant deployment.” Her voice takes on a hard edge, but Scylla knows all too well the ways to resist losing yourself in grief. It’s easier, perhaps, for Raelle to be angry right now. “She died a year before I took the Oath. Firefight in Liberia. Wasn’t much left of her.”

Scylla brings their joined hands to her mouth and kisses Raelle’s knuckles. There are some things, she knows, that exist beyond where words can reach.

(Oh, how well she knows.)

“When I was conscripted, I had this whole plan.” Raelle’s voice wobbles a little for a moment, steadies, then becomes flat and toneless. “Flunk out of Basic, die quickly on the frontlines. My mom . . . she was so tired. Used up. I knew that was gonna be my life, too, so I wanted out. Felt a bit guilty, ’cause of my dad, but he was probably better off without me.”

“I don’t think that’s true.”

“Maybe not,” Raelle allows, but Scylla knows she’s just humoring her; she doesn’t sound at all convinced. “I know shacking up with my mom and having me didn’t make his life _easier_ , though. A witch and a civilian, married—it’s not just witches who don’t like that. At least he could have a normal life with both of us gone. No more suspicious looks, no more snide remarks.”

It’s the ease with which she says all of this—like it’s a truth so obvious that it’s no longer interesting—that makes it hard, suddenly, for Scylla to touch her. She unclasps her hand from Raelle’s and slides off the hood of the car, landing on her feet with a soft _whumph_ in the sand. 

“Scyl?” Raelle says behind her. “Is everything—?”

But she bites off the rest of the sentence. It’s fairly apparent, Scylla thinks, that no, everything is _not_ all right. 

And it’s not just that it hurts to hear Raelle talk—like her life meant nothing to anyone. 

(But oh, it _does_. It hurts more than should be allowed in San Junipero. Isn’t this supposed to be paradise?)

It’s that Scylla knows what it’s like to be left behind. She doesn’t know Raelle’s father—has never even seen a picture of him that she can remember—but imagining his grief is too cruel. It takes her breath away. It sends her back to that garage in the Cession again; to the smell of oil and exhaust and the single, naked lightbulb swaying gently from the ceiling.

(And her parents, on the other side of the door—no. No, she won’t think of that. Better to be angry.)

But then Raelle clumsily slides off the hood of the car—and stubs her toe on the descent, if the muttered “ _shit_ ” is anything to go by—and just like that, it brings Scylla back.

Because Raelle has no way of knowing all that, does she? 

Scylla’s never told her.

“Hey.” 

Warm arms tentatively wrap around her, pulling her in closer when she doesn’t balk at the touch. Raelle presses her nose into the side of Scylla’s neck, and Scylla breathes in the familiar smell of her—smoke and pine and a hint of the sea, and lets her breath go steady once more.

“I’m sorry,” Raelle mumbles against her skin. “I didn’t want to upset you.”

And Scylla realizes that this is it: the now or never moment she’s been dancing around for weeks. 

“You didn’t know,” she says slowly. “I never told you.”

Raelle tenses around her. “Never told me what?” 

“That the burning times never stopped.”

Scylla shakes her head; she’s going about this all wrong, but it’s hard to actually say the words. She tries again: “That my parents were Dodgers. That when I was sixteen—we were in the Cession, actually—the Military Police finally caught up with us.” She swallows hard. “My parents surrendered, but it didn’t matter. The Military Police wanted to make an example out of them.”

It’s quiet again, after that. So quiet that the sound of the ocean seems suddenly loud in Scylla’s ears, pouring into the places where words won’t come. Scylla feels Raelle’s arms tighten around her, feels the press of a dry kiss where her neck meets her shoulder, but she can’t bring herself to look Raelle in the eye.

(It’s stunning, saying the words out loud, after keeping them under lock and key for so many years.)

(She wishes that was the only reason she can’t face Raelle right now.)

“Scyl,” Raelle whispers, “I’m so sorry.”

Scylla nods, brushing their heads together. She rests her hands on top of Raelle’s where they’re locked around her middle. Maybe, she thinks, she can keep Raelle right here, holding her, even after she learns the truth.

“I wanted to avenge their deaths,” she says. “I . . . did things. At the time I believed it was right; making them proud. Fighting for freedom. Now I’m not entirely sure.”

“I don’t understand.”

But there’s a new edge in Raelle’s voice, and Scylla knows: even if she claims she doesn’t understand, she’s beginning to. There’s no anger in her tone, though, and when she finally pulls away from Scylla, she gently turns her around so that they’re standing face to face. 

(Scylla’s always been undone by those eyes. But now, it’s a different kind of undoing.)

“Please don’t make me say it,” she whispers.

It’s the very last card in her hand: the stupid, impressible hope that _maybe_ Raelle will understand, just as long as Scylla doesn’t have to actually say the words herself. 

But then Raelle’s eyes go wide. Her expression suddenly hardens. And when she takes an step backwards, freeing herself from Scylla’s arms, Scylla finally has no choice but to admit what a stupid thing it was to hope for.

“You were Spree.” 

Raelle draws the words out slowly, like she wants to give Scylla a chance to deny them. Like she _needs_ to hear Scylla tell her they’re not true.

Scylla can’t.

For a brief, mad second she considers lying. Just so Raelle will relax—loosen her muscles from the fight-or-flight stance she’s shifted into—and let Scylla hold her again.

Scylla’s always been a horrible liar.

So instead she pleads, “Raelle—”

“Now I know why you never opened up about anything.” Raelle’s voice is _shaking_ , but it’s not from anger.

In a way, anger might be easier. This is _betrayal_ , and the knowledge that this is entirely Scylla’s doing makes tears sting hotly in her eyes. When she looks away over the bluffs so Raelle won’t see, the lights of San Junipero all run together in a smeary mess of light.

Scylla wonders if she could open up right now—tell Raelle everything and maybe even still salvage this. If she could find a way to string together all the disordered pieces of her heart and give them to Raelle. The whys and hows—the thousands of missteps, all the little tragedies of her life. Everything that led to her standing in the middle of a crowded mall with a blue balloon in her hand. 

She thinks, even now, that Raelle would understand. _Knows_ , somehow, that Raelle would still love her in the end.

But if Raelle learns anything more—if she ever knew the kinds of things Scylla _did_ when she was Spree—she might hate Scylla forever.

( _Forever_ , after all, is a very long time here.)

So what she says instead is, “You didn’t either.” Swallows. “You never opened up to me either, Raelle, and how was I—?”

“Because I flunked out of Basic and got myself killed on the frontlines of some stupid conflict I don’t even remember the point of!” Now Raelle _is_ getting angry, and it’s not the relief Scylla thought it would be. Her voice climbs, brushing up against hysterical. “Because my Unit, the people who were _supposed_ to have my back, didn’t. Our Unit failed, but because one of them was an _illustrious Bellweather_ , they both got accepted into War College anyway. But, lucky me, _I_ got a combat infantry assignment right out the gate, and San Junipero came calling soon after.”

She shakes her head. Scylla can see that her eyes are bright with tears, and by the look on her face, she’s _furious_ about it. More so at this, perhaps, than she is with Scylla. And that is so purely _Raelle_ —the Raelle that Scylla loves, hotheaded and emotional and feeling everything all at once—that, even now, Scylla thinks _Goddess, I adore you._

(And Goddess, how predictably she’s fucked it all up.)

“And then, after all that—” Raelle pauses, looking despondently down the bluffs at San Junipero “The person I fucked up my whole life for isn’t even here! Or doesn’t want to be found. I don’t know which is worse. My mom _died_ because of the Spree. They’re the whole reason I’m here. And all this time—”

“Raelle,” Scylla interrupts. She doesn’t even know, really, what she means to say; only that she can’t bear to hear Raelle end that sentence. “Raelle, if I had known, I—”

“What, Scyl? Would you have just never opened up at all? Let me believe you were another sad kid like me whose bloodline the Army didn’t miss when it was gone?”

“I _am_ like you, Raelle. You just don’t see it.”

Maybe it’s absolutely the wrong thing to say at the moment. But Scylla knows it’s true, and if she has any hope of keeping Raelle, it lies in making her see that. They’ve both tried, in their own way, to do right. They’ve had so much taken away. Been forced to make a living in a world that gave them few, if any, choices. 

But, now, Scylla has choices, and of this she’s sure: she’ll always choose Raelle over everything.

She _has_ to make her understand.

“I—” she starts to say.

But then she stops cold, the words dying on her tongue, because there it is again: that cursed beeping sound from the beach.

It’s _back_ , and louder this time. A steady pulse of a noise; it’s ear-splitting, drowning out everything else. 

“Don’t you _hear_ that?” she yells at Raelle, who stares at her, no longer mad or upset, her face slack with confusion. “Goddess!” She clamps her hands over her ears, desperately trying to shut it out. 

Raelle steps towards her, her expression shifting from confusion to concern. “Scylla, what are you talking about?” she asks, tone edged with slow-rising panic. “There’s nothing—there’s no noise.”

She reaches for Scylla, who flinches away. The noise continues incessantly, as sharp as a knife. Her head feels like it’s being split open. The edges of the world blur. Her mouth is stuffed full with cotton. When she tries to speak, her lips are foreign, uncontrollable; no sound emerges from her throat.

Raelle’s saying her name, but she could be miles away. Distantly, Scylla can feel Raelle’s hands on her shoulders, fingers digging in, but she doesn’t move. She’s afraid to pull her hands away from her ears. 

“Scylla,” Raelle keeps repeating, and she _is_ panicked now, Scylla notes dreamily. “Scylla, what’s wrong?!”

Scylla tries to speak again, but her throat burns; like all the times she practiced Seeds for much too long during Basic, forcing herself to perfect them in a single evening.

She manages, “Raelle, I—”

The world shifts on its axis and her knees give out beneath her. She’s on the ground, flat on her back, staring at the stars—

(That second night; pointing up at the sky; Raelle gazing at her with a love-struck expression.

 _Who taught you all that?_ )

—and then, nothing.

*****

Scylla blinks.

Or tries to, anyway. Her eyelids feel like they’re weighed down with lead. 

The beeping’s still going, but it’s more subdued. A soft, steady _blip-blip-blip_ awash in a multitude of other sounds: the scuffle of shoes; a rustle of cloth and paper; inaudible muttering from what could be only a few feet away.

Scylla tries to turn her head to look, but her neck is stiff and the light is too bright; she winces at the dual spikes of pain. 

She counts to ten in her head.

Tries again.

Above her is a ceiling, painted eggshell white. It looks vaguely familiar—her mind reaches sluggishly for a connection. She registers starched rough cotton underneath her hands and against her bare legs. She looks down at herself, despite the protest of her aching neck muscles. 

A hospital bed. 

The beeping seems to tick up just slightly at the realization. She follows the sound: to her left on a small, stainless steel stand is a gray box with a display panel full of acronyms she doesn’t understand. But to the side of _that_ is a small, yellow-toned digital screen showing a series of peaking and dipping lines.

And that _is_ something she understands.

There’s a clipboard with notes hanging just below the equipment, but she can only make out a smattering of words: _in combat; multiple sessions; unclear; optimistic_. 

At once, she’s overcome with dizziness, sinking back down and closing her eyes. The world spins beneath her, anchored weakly by the horrible press of plastic in her nose and throat. Her stomach heaves violently. She tries to will herself to stay calm, but her heart continues to leap and thud in her chest, and with it goes the awful grating _beep_ of the ECG machine, and—

—and where is Raelle?—

—she’s going to be sick, and—

—she’s _tired_ ; she just wants to sleep—

“Scylla?”

*****

She starts awake as if from a nightmare, jerking up, damp with sweat, heart racing and muscles tense. The _whoosh_ of the ocean rushes back into her ears; there’s cool, soft grass underneath her—

She’s back in San Junipero. 

Somehow.

Raelle kneels beside her, clutching her hand, her expression a mix of terror and bewilderment. Scylla eases herself up onto her elbows with a groan, slowly coming back into herself. 

“Oh, thank _God_ ,” Raelle says, her tear-streaked face flooding with relief. She lets go of Scylla’s hand and hugs her tightly. She lets go of Scylla’s hand and hugs her tightly, mumbling into her hair, “I was so scared. I didn’t know what to do—”

Scylla hushes her gently, wrapping her arms around Raelle and burying her face into the front of her shirt. She breathes in the familiar scent— _Raelle_ , and the scent of salt and pine and a smell that’s distinctly, without explanation, _Raelle_ , and somehow it’s the most comforting thing in the entire universe. She can’t believe that, even for a second, even in anger, she _didn’t_ want to have Raelle so close, their bodies pressed together, heartbeat to heartbeat.

Their argument feels insignificant, already forgotten in the wake of what just happened.

But what that _is_ exactly, Scylla isn’t sure—not yet—though she can feel vague notions creeping to the forefront of her mind.

They stay like that for what feels like hours.

Eventually, Scylla starts to ache from the awkward position and she gently untangles herself from the embrace, capturing Raelle’s mouth in a soft, reassuring kiss. 

“Scyl,” Raelle says, as she helps Scylla to her feet. “What was that?”

And all at once, the entire mystery unravels—

It all comes flooding back: the biting sting of rain, the sticky-slosh of mud underfoot, and the distorted howl of a Disruption Seed. Her commanding officer shouting directions, gesturing with her hands for them to take cover. A spark of light then an explosion that rips her off the ground, sending her flying backwards. Warm, coppery blood in her mouth; the sharp and sudden pain in her head like a scourge strike.

Waking up dazed in San Junipero, completely unaware of where she was or how she got there.

_Maybe I’m just a tourist._

_I’m not sure it works like that._

Her legs wobble and for a second, Scylla’s certain she’s about to collapse again. But the sensation passes just as quickly as it came. She regains a semblance of composure, swallowing hard to try and rid herself of the lump in her throat. 

“Scylla?” Raelle starts quietly, like she’s trying to force herself to speak. She’s wringing her hands, toying with her mother’s ring. “It shouldn’t work in San Junipero—Linking. But when I saw you pass out, I just _reacted_. I grabbed your hand and . . . I _felt_ it.”

She pauses, as if searching for the right words. Her voice comes tentative, trembling: “You’re _alive_ , Scylla.”

The silence that follows coils around Scylla’s throat and squeezes tight, until she’s unable to speak. She stares into Raelle’s eyes—finds the lights of San Junipero there, reflected off the blue—and mindlessly rubs a thumb over her wrist, over and over. For no other reason than to prove how real she is. How real all of this is.

“I’m alive.” It leaves her mouth curled up in a question. Her lips are numb, and she’s sure Raelle can feel her pulse thundering through her wrist where their hands are joined.

She tries again: “I’m alive.” 

In spite of the extraordinary proof to the contrary, the words don’t sound right; don’t sound _true_.

Maybe the reason for that is simple: they’re not supposed to be uttered with such terrible, hollowing grief. 

*****

The drive home is quiet. It feels like they left Raelle’s house days ago, smiling and laughing, singing along to the radio and stealing kisses as Raelle drove leisurely along the winding roads.

“I don’t know what to say, Scyl.”

They’re parked in the driveway, but neither of them has made to move.

Every time Scylla remembers the starched white linens or the squeak of shoes on linoleum another wave of dizzy nausea washes over her. She can still feel the flex of plastic down her throat when she swallows. And even though it’s gone now, the incessant _beep_ of the EKG machine echoes faintly in her ears.

She told Raelle about everything she saw, the whole awful experience, the words spilling out of her like water.

(Or blood.)

“I don’t know either,” she replies in a whisper.

Raelle looks straight ahead, not meeting her gaze. “What happens now?”

It’s the million dollar question. The whole way home, Scylla couldn’t voice it aloud, because acknowledging it means having to make a decision. It means making a _choice_. And that’s the most terrifying thing of all. Because maybe it’s true, maybe she _doesn’t_ belong here just yet. But she _can’t_ lose Raelle. Not now. She loves her—

(And it _is_ love; she’s known it long before she even let herself acknowledge it.)

—and she will not give her up. 

Outside, she can hear the gentle, ceaseless lap of the waves against the shore. 

*****

Scylla sits on her parents’ couch, staring at her hands.

She confesses everything to them—and not just about the realization that she’s in a coma. _Everything_. The whole sorry story of how she ended up in San Junipero in the first place; how the grief of their loss, so wide and vast it devoured her whole, brought her to a mall where she watched hundreds of people throw themselves to their deaths. The infiltration of Fort Salem, years of undercover work, then helping to bridge the gap between the Spree and the Army at the re-emergence of the Camarilla. 

And that fateful night in the jungle, with the blinding rain and the mud-slicked roads, when the entire world exploded and washed Scylla up on the shores of perpetual summer.

She doesn’t want to tell them any of it. But she forces it all out, word by bloody word, until everything’s laid bare. There’s no point in hiding anymore. Not from _them_. 

There’s a spike of guilt when her first tears fall; she’s done terrible things. She’s killed—not in their name, exactly, but always with them in the back of her mind; the memory of their cold, lifeless bodies spurred her on every time she doubted herself. Doubted the cause. It was a tactic employed by necessity—there was no other reason to keep on living. A justification, even if she knew in her heart that it wasn’t what they would have wanted.

They were pacifists. They were _good_ ; better than she’s ever been. They showed her all the beautiful things their Work could do and taught her to never use it on a civilian unless it was life or death. They were always gentle. They told her the names of the stars. Her father shared sigils his older sister taught him before she became a casualty on Sarah Alder’s infinite list of victims. On special occasions, her mother braided her hair in the way all Ramshorns had worn it into battle, stretching back generations. 

_It’s not the Army’s anymore_ , her mother said. _It’s just ours._

Now she can’t even look at them. Not when her father places a steaming mug of tea down in front of her on the coffee table. Not when her mother sits beside her and wraps her up in a tight hug.

It’s more than Scylla deserves.

But she hugs back anyway, burying her face in her mother’s thin sweater as her father strokes her hair gently; like he used to when she was a child, alert and shaking from a nightmare, terrified the Military Police had found them. 

When Scylla finally takes a breath and chances a look up, she realizes her worst fear hasn’t materialized.

Because her parents are still here. There’s no disgust in their eyes, no disappointment. They look back at her with identical expressions of steady calm—the same way they used to look at her when she was a child, and they were taking off running again. Running from their apartment in the middle of the night, or the neighbors who pounded so loudly on their door she thought it might fly off its hinges. There were so many times she was afraid.

But her parents were there every time, and the looks on their faces told her _they_ weren’t afraid, so she didn’t need to be either.

(She realizes, now, that they must have been terrified. It makes her chest ache with a painful kind of love—an awareness that she’ll never entirely understand all the things they sacrificed for her.)

It’s her mother who finally breaks the silence with a gentle, matter-of-fact tone, “So, what will you do now?”

And Scylla knows she isn’t asking idly. Knows that what she really means is: _How will you make this right?_

In spite of herself, Scylla smiles a little through her tears. She’ll never get tired of her mother saying typical _mom_ things like that—and being able to _hear_ her say them is something else entirely.

But the question is sobering and frustratingly difficult. Because how _do_ you make right out of so much wrong?

Is it even possible to atone for that much blood?

Her father reaches for her hand and gives it a tight squeeze, as if he read her mind. “Not everything can be fixed,” he says softly. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t try.”

Scylla squeezes his hand back and swipes the tears clumsily off her face. “I’m not even sure I know where to start,” she admits, voice wobbly.

Her mother’s gaze is unyielding. “Oh, sweetheart,” she says. “I think you do.” 

It hits Scylla all at once, then, with a force that nearly takes her breath away.

They want her to go. Back to Earth. Back to the Army. 

(Back to her bruised, comatose body. Back to _conscription_. Most likely another painful death in combat, too, somewhere down the line.)

“No,” Scylla says automatically. 

Her mother shares a swift look with her father. “Think about it, Scylla,” she urges. “You can’t undo any hurt here. It’s all already undone.” She gestures vaguely at the room, then lets her hands fall limp at her sides. There’s something helpless in the movement—along with the sudden brightness in her eyes—and Scylla’s breath catches in her throat. 

(It never occurred to her that going back to Earth wouldn’t just mean _she’s_ losing _them_ again.)

“Think of all the good you could still do,” her mother concludes, blinking furiously at something over Scylla’s shoulder. “Think of all the life you still have left to live.”

It’s that turn of phrase— _all the life you still have left to live_ —that suddenly makes Scylla think of Raelle. An image appears in her head of Raelle sitting cross-legged on the porch swing this morning: swaddled in an oversized blanket, cradling a cup of coffee. Reeling Scylla down to her level and kissing her hard when she tried to leave.

She’s certain, then—no matter how selfish, no matter how wrong—no amount of good she could do is worth what she’ll have to lose.

“Máà—” she pleads in Méníshè. Her parents taught her some as a child so that she would always be able to communicate with other witches, no matter where she was. Years and years before War College made her fluent.

It’s been so long since she’s slipped into it without thinking, but the words seem to come easy when they’re full of meaning. “Raél . . . ’Ayás imé wèlá. Éì imé jìpón; azwà; ébù.” Tears are threatening to fall once again, but she can’t stop talking; she needs, desperately, for them to understand. “I don’t want to go back. I want to stay here.”

Her father searches her eyes. “You can’t,” he says, in such an infinitely gentle tone of voice that Scylla can no longer hold back her tears. “And even if you _could_ . . . you shouldn’t, kiddo. There are people out there waiting for you, people who _need_ you. People you can help.” 

He says this with such conviction that it makes Scylla pause in spite of herself. It’s jarring, after all this time, to hear someone believing in her capacity to be _good_. She can’t even remember the last time she thought of her own hands as tools for healing rather than harming.

(It stuns her, how addictive that belief is. How badly, in spite of everything, she wants to be the person her father thinks she is.)

“And just think of all the good you could do out there,” he adds, heedless of Scylla’s sudden inner conflict. “Your mom’s right. This is your chance, Scylla.”

“But Raelle—”

Scylla falters. She thinks of Raelle on the porch this morning, waving a sleepy, distracted goodbye from her nest on the swing. Raelle curled around her in bed last night, her breath fanning lightly across Scylla’s neck. Raelle holding her hand on the table at breakfast, grinning at her across the bar at Tucker’s, lifting her onto the kitchen counter and kissing her breathless. 

There aren’t words big enough for all of that; but her mother seems to guess what she means anyway.

“Raelle would want you to do what’s right,” she says. “You know that, don’t you?”

Scylla does.

(And that’s the worst part of all of this.)

*****

She takes her time getting back to the beach house, after that. She’s afraid of having to look Raelle in the eye, so soon after the conversation with her parents—afraid telling her what she knows she has to do. 

(Afraid, still, that Raelle might agree. Even if Scylla knows it’s the right thing to do, hearing it from Raelle would feel like a dismissal. She’s not sure she could bear that.)

But despite her attempts to delay, the house eventually comes back into view. Raelle is there, standing on the back porch and looking out pensively over the water; even from a distance her shoulders are noticeably tight—as if she’s holding herself together, arms folded in front of her chest—though they immediately relax when she sees Scylla walking down the beach.

And then Scylla’s _running_ to meet her, because all of her trepidation is apparently nulled in the face of how badly she needs to be in Raelle’s arms. Raelle seems to be thinking the same thing, because she deftly leaps over the porch railing and catches Scylla in a gripping hug that lasts for a long, long minute.

“Come on,” Raelle says, as they break apart. “Let’s go for a walk.” 

They go down to the water’s edge to watch the sun inching its way back into the sea, the sky a blaze of pink and gold above them.

The water laps about their ankles, warm and inviting, the sand soft and pliable beneath their feet. Scylla rests her head on Raelle’s shoulder, her arms draped loosely around Raelle’s waist as they begin to dance, swaying in time to music that only exists between the two of them. Scylla can hear—or thinks she can hear—Raelle’s heart beating wildly in her chest, and her own leaping against her ribs to keep pace. She turns her head up towards Raelle, who meets her gaze with a smile and leans in to kiss her forehead.

Raelle pulls away just a little, putting two fingers under Scylla’s chin to lift it up. “Hey,” she whispers. “I can see the stars in your eyes.” 

“Really?” Scylla asks, and the moment seems surreal.

“They’re beautiful,” Raelle tells her, in a hushed, awed tone. “ _You’re_ beautiful.”

Scylla kisses her then, their noses bumping against each other. Raelle tastes like salt air and coffee. When they break apart Raelle kisses the space of skin below her ear, and Scylla shivers. Feeling weak in the knees, she holds Raelle closer to keep herself tethered; as if she might float away otherwise.

They sit on the beach, retreating up higher to where the sand is cool and dry.

Scylla hugs her knees to her chest while Raelle splays out beside her, leaning back on her hands, her head dipping to trail tiny kisses along Scylla’s shoulder. Her fingers join her mouth after a little while; she draws them lightly along Scylla’s arm, her touch feather-light, moving in long curving strokes, as if she’s writing lines of poetry on Scylla’s skin. 

“I wish I could take a picture of this right now,” Raelle says quietly. “Just us, as we are at this moment. And then I could take it out and look at it whenever I wanted to and recall every detail.” She pauses, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind Scylla’s ear. “There’ll be a thousand other moments, but never one exactly like this.”

She puts her hand against Scylla’s cheek, her thumb brushing back and forth. Scylla reaches up and takes Raelle’s hand in her own; she brings it to her mouth, kissing her palm; her wrist; the tips of her fingers, one by one by one. 

“Lóù imé wèlá,” she says, plainly, because there is nothing else left to say. “I love you.”

It’s the first time she’s said it out loud.

She’s been scared to say it up until now, and perhaps it was ridiculous, fearing something like that while being dead. But she’s never loved anyone before like this. And voicing it would’ve made it undeniably true, which was a terrifying thought. And that fear only intensified from the moment she found herself lying in that hospital bed, realizing that her time in San Junipero could end at any moment, the knowledge looming like dark, perilous storm clouds.

But she isn’t afraid any longer. She wants— _needs_ —Raelle to know exactly how she feels.

Raelle simply kisses Scylla again in reply before tugging her down into the sand. It’s clumsy, but Scylla settles half on top of Raelle easily, fire licking low in her belly as their legs thread together.

And when Raelle pulls Scylla in by the front of her shirt for an even fiercer kiss, thigh nudging up just enough, Scylla’s mind goes wonderfully blank, occupied only with the thought of kissing Raelle until her lips are bruised.

Though she would very much like to continue this line of action, the conversation with her parents still lingers in the back of her mind. She kisses Raelle one last time for good measure then sits up, patting Raelle’s thigh.

Raelle groans good-naturedly, pushing herself up off the sand. “You okay?” 

“Just thinking. If you could do anything, what would you do?”

Raelle hums. “Not sure. So many things.” She fiddles with the ring on her index finger, twisting it back and forth as she mulls over the question. “Hug my dad one more time. Tell him I’m sorry for being stupid and messing everything up. Ask my mom what happened to her. Go back in time and get into War College; actually make them proud. Get married.”

 _Get married_.

Scylla’s heart skips a beat and she’s overcome with a stupid, wondrous idea. So she says it, before she has a chance to reconsider:

“I know it’s crazy, but . . . marry me?”

Raelle laughs. “In San Junipero?” Her tone is flippant, teasing; she clearly thinks Scylla’s joking. It’s only after a long second of silence that Raelle’s cheery smile fades, her expression wilting. “We’ve only known each other for a few months,” she says gently. “And if you leave . . . _when_ you leave . . .” 

She trails off, looking away, and it’s exactly the kind of selfless thing Scylla expected her to say. But she squares her shoulders, counters with, “It’s true; if I _do_ leave San Junipero, who knows when I’ll return. But I don’t want to go back without having something to hold on to.” She stares into Raelle’s eyes, willing her to understand. “I want that thing to be _you_.”

“Scyl—” Raelle sighs, running a hand through her hair. 

“Lu imé yéné,” Scylla tells her. “You’re my girl. Lu imé kháà. My coven. There’s no stronger word amongst witches; it means more than _home_. It means _safe_. And being with you is the safest place I’ve ever been.”

Raelle shakes her head slowly. “Scylla, you have a _whole life_ left. So many other people you could meet and fall in love with. They could give you something _real_. You can’t give that up. Not for me.”

“ _This_ is real.” She puts her hand on Raelle’s face, cupping her cheek. “Please, Raelle. I love you so much. I’ve never—I _could_ never—feel this way about anyone else.”

She leans in and their lips meet as soft as a sigh. Raelle moves and deepens the kiss, combing her fingers through Scylla’s hair. 

"I love you," Raelle whispers in her ear breathlessly, and for a moment Scylla’s certain she’s imagined it. 

But then Raelle says it again, louder this time, breath hot on Scylla’s ear; then a third time against Scylla’s mouth, holding her close. And Scylla feels so _much_ that it’s almost unbearable, she thinks she could burst, unable to do anything but kiss Raelle again and again and again until she’s giddy and laughing with euphoric happiness.

“Yes,” Raelle finally says, holding Scylla close. “Yes, of course. I’ll marry you.”

“Forever is a long time, Raelle Collar.” She grins, standing up and tugging Raelle to her feet. She scoops Raelle up into her arms, twirling her around playfully; Raelle tips her head back and laughs, sounding as deliriously happy as Scylla feels. She sets Raelle gently back down on her feet, taking Raelle’s hands in her own. “Are you sure?”

Raelle looks at her, starry-eyed and beautiful, and Scylla already knows the answer. She’s as sure of it as she is her own heart.

There could never be any other choice to make.

*****

Raelle, hopeless romantic that she is, _insists_ that they do things properly.

Which apparently includes the exchange of rings.

“That’s not even a witch tradition,” Scylla argues playfully, as they lounge together on the front porch in the afternoon sun.

“But I’m not just a witch,” Raelle replies. She holds up her hand, showing off the ring there; it catches the light, sending a brief golden glimmer over the side of the house. “This was my mom’s wedding ring—my dad saved up half a year to buy it. It was one of the few things the Army sent back from Liberia. My dad let me keep it.” She snuggles in closer to Scylla, tightening her embrace. “He always told me one day I could give it to the girl I married.” 

It’s the kind of sugary sweet story that makes Scylla feel light-headed with love. Her parents wore rings too, but only so that they wouldn’t stand out amongst civvies. They never even had a handfasting. Not a real one, anyway; such luxuries weren’t afforded to Dodgers. Scylla always assumed things would be the same for her—even when she conscripted. The idea of loving someone forever seemed impossible at the time.

But San Junipero makes once impossible things seem as easy as breathing.

And Raelle has quite the similar effect.

So she acquiesces. “Rings it is then,” she says, pressing a kiss to Raelle’s temple. 

It’s one thing settled.

*****

“I can do it,” Libba volunteers, when they’re all crowded together around a table in front of a tiny café.

Scylla blinks. “Really?” 

Libba shrugs, taking a sip of her frothy latte. “I went to practically a hundred handfastings before I died. High Atlantics; you know how we are.” She grins, clearly enthusiastic about the idea. “I don’t have the ceremony memorized, but I know it well enough. Besides, I don’t think the details are so important anyway. Definitely not in San Junipero.”

“It’s the thought that counts, right?” Glory beams at Scylla. “Do you know what you’re going to wear?”

If they were alive, they’d have to wear their dress blues. And while Scylla’s absolutely positive that San Junipero could conjure those pieces of clothing up, if they so desired—and even more positive that Raelle would look every ounce the dashing soldier—she’s more than happy to eschew _that_ particular tradition.

(The Army doesn’t exist in San Junipero; sometimes she forgets that it ever existed at all.)

Her mother’s already found the perfect dress: ivory, with a box-pleated skirt and an off-the-shoulder lace jacket with pearl buttons. 

*****

“Beautiful,” her mother comments a few days later, fixing Scylla’s hair into an elegant waterfall braid. She meets Scylla’s gaze in the mirror, her eyes shining with tears. “Like something out of a fairytale.”

And Scylla’s never been particularly prone to hyperbole, but in this case it feels true. It’s a perfect day, just like it always is in San Junipero. The air is thick with the heady scent of flowers and salt. Fluffy white clouds dot an impossibly blue sky. But it’s more than just the magic of where they are.

Because here is Raelle, standing at the altar—beneath a bower made of wicker and baby’s breath—her smile radiant.

She looks so beautiful, dressed in a stony Carolina blue three-piece suit, a crown of verbena and orange blossoms adorning her head.

The matching floral crowns were Glory’s idea: a small touch that Scylla appreciates. It makes Raelle look ethereal. Goddess blessed, almost, Scylla thinks, and her heart soars. And when Raelle smiles at her, hands clasped neatly in front of her, Scylla’s heart turns over in her chest.

She glances over at her parents, who, like Glory, stand just outside the spiral lined with stones and shells. It’s the happiest she’s ever seen them, maybe even rivaling that first day when they were finally reunited. She knows that they’re right—they always are—and that she’ll have to return to her _real_ life soon enough.

But, perhaps, if only just for this moment, Scylla _is_ meant to be here—standing on a beach, Raelle easing a ring onto her finger. The ring that was her mother’s; the most precious thing to Raelle in the entire world. Something so important that San Junipero allowed her to keep it even in death.

The metal is cool against Scylla’s skin. In the sunlight, it seems to glow. 

And then Libba binds their hands, and it’s not just for five years, but forever, through life and death, as long as that may be.

When they recite their lines— _we do, we will_ —Raelle flashes her a brilliant grin and gives her hand a tiny squeeze. Scylla feels as though she could float away; Raelle’s the only thing keeping her tethered to the ground. She blinks away her tears, returning Raelle’s smile as Libba tips the conch shell over their hands, the saltwater trickling between their fingers, down their palms.

They lean in for a kiss, the binding complete.

“You’re my _wife_ ,” Raelle whispers, bumping their noses together. She sounds like she can hardly believe it. “Is this real?”

“All of it,” Scylla says, kissing her again.

It’s the most alive she’s ever felt.

*****

They go to a little cabin up in the mountains for their wedding night and a week-long honeymoon. Not that they really need it. Even back at their little beachside cottage there’s no one to bother them and never any obligations. But it’s thrilling to be somewhere else for a little while. It makes this whole thing feel real—being _married_. Even if marriage in San Junipero doesn’t really count, it’s more than Scylla’s ever dreamed.

(The getaway was another one of Glory’s suggestions—Scylla really must find a way to reward her brilliance.)

The location is rustic and pine-drenched and reminds Scylla of the month she and her parents spent camping in the Poconos when she was fourteen. Though this is nicer. The cabin sits in a valley, framed on all sides by miles of evergreens. Beside the cabin is a lake, the sun dappling off the ripples left in the wake of darting insects. It’s so _quiet_ , away from the bustle of the city and the constant roar of the ocean. 

It’s perfect—because of course it is; this is San Junipero. The Summerlands. Heaven. But it’s only so perfect because Raelle’s here too, beaming at Scylla as they lean on the car admiring the view. Scylla reaches for Raelle’s hand, her thumb running over the golden band she slid onto Raelle’s finger only this morning.

“Come on,” Raelle says, tugging on her hand. “I want to go swimming.”

They don’t spend any time unpacking, except for the few minutes it takes for Scylla to dig their bathing suits out of the suitcase. 

The water’s crystal clear; Scylla can see almost all the way to the bottom when they swim out to the dock. Raelle hoists herself up onto the wooden platform, dripping everywhere, her bathing suit clinging to her skin. And—not for the first time—Scylla thinks, _Goddess_ , because Raelle is surely the most beautiful woman she has ever seen. Scylla’s met many witches. And she’s kissed her fair share of pretty girls. But none of them could ever compare to Raelle. She _shines_.

Raelle pulls her in for a kiss, and they make out on the dock until Scylla feels light-headed from lust and the press of Raelle’s mouth against hers. When at last they stumble back to the cabin, buzzing with arousal, Scylla strips Raelle of her wet clothes and kneels in front of her. Scylla kisses the very core of her, enjoying the way Raelle trembles at the slide of her tongue. 

And then she coaxes Raelle to the bed.

Scylla kisses along the inside of Raelle’s thigh, past her witch mark, right up to the apex of her legs. She doesn’t let up even after Raelle’s come twice, doesn’t stop until Raelle tugs painfully on Scylla’s hair and begs her to, sounding almost on the verge of tears. And Scylla slides up quickly, lets Raelle cover her face with kisses while still trying to catch her breath, and it’s quite possibly one of the most beautiful things ever, to see Raelle flushed and panting and worn out, and yet still wanting to kiss her senselessly.

They fall asleep like that, in the waning afternoon sunlight.

Scylla wakes up first, her arm around Raelle’s waist, and kisses Raelle’s forehead, nose, shoulders, until Raelle finally stirs and leans up to kiss Scylla gently with her eyes closed.

"You completely wore me out, you know," Raelle tells her.

“Sorry,” Scylla says with a grin, though she’s not the least bit sorry and they both know it.

Raelle returns the grin with a shake of her head, her face tinged a pretty rose color. She shifts so that she’s above Scylla, leaning down to press kisses along her jawline. Scylla closes her eyes with a soft sigh as Raelle’s hands flit across her stomach, as she kisses the top of Scylla’s breast. Raelle’s movements are always so smooth and sure; it isn’t long until Scylla’s hips are jerking up against her hand, against skilled fingers, her moans swallowed up as Raelle kisses her, hard.

"You’re amazing,” Scylla tells her afterward, when she’s finally managed to breathe again.

Raelle, lying curled up beside her, her head resting on Scylla’s chest, kisses her stomach. She offers one of those small smiles that always makes Scylla’s heart turn over slowly in her chest. It’s the kind of smile that Scylla knows is meant for her and only her. One that means Raelle’s never been happier in her whole life—Scylla knows this because she feels it too. It feels as though all of the forces of life and death have conspired to bring them together. There could never be anything _but_ this.

“I love you,” Raelle says, kissing her stomach again and tracing the words there with her finger. "So much that it hurts sometimes. But your kisses are always so gentle." Raelle smiles. “You can be rough with me though. I’m not fragile, I won’t break.”

“But I might,” Scylla says, and the truth of the words startle her. "When I kiss you my heart beats so hard that it feels like it might break my chest. I need to kiss you softly to keep from bursting.”

*****

Hours later, Scylla wakes to a low rumble of thunder.

She blinks, yawns, and tries to fall back asleep, managing to doze for a few minutes, until another burst of thunder wakes her up again. Raelle’s face is buried against Scylla’s shoulder, her arm wrapped around Scylla’s waist.

For a moment, Scylla thinks she’s about to be lulled back to sleep once again by the warmth of the bed and the closeness of Raelle; when Raelle stirs slightly, mumbling something incoherent in her sleep, and Scylla’s heart swells up with outrageous happiness.

She wants to kiss Raelle awake, wants to pin her to the bed and kiss every inch of her skin. But they had quite the day yesterday, followed by and an even more _eventful_ evening, and Raelle deserves to rest up. 

So instead, Scylla brushes a light kiss to Raelle’s forehead before gently untangling herself and slipping out of bed. The coolness of the room helps wake her up the rest of the way, and as she tugs on a t-shirt and pajama bottoms she can’t help but smile. 

She’s happy.

_They’re happy._

If only for a little while.

(Temporary happiness is still happiness, she reminds herself. It’s more than she’s ever dreamed.)

After a few minutes and a glass of water she slips back into bed beside Raelle, who stirs again and _does_ wake this time, mumbling a sleepy _hello_ as she wraps her arms around Scylla and snuggles against her.

Scylla presses a kiss to her forehead. “Good morning, sleepyhead.”

“Is it raining?”

“Looks like it.” Scylla kisses the tip of Raelle’s nose. “And on our honeymoon, no less.”

Raelle makes a small sound of agreement. Her fingers trace small circles on Scylla’s forearm. 

“I guess we’ll have to stay in _all_ day, then,” Raelle sighs, finally. She doesn’t sound all that disappointed, though. Her hands slide under Scylla’s shirt, fingers skimming along her belly.

Scylla relaxes into the touch. “I suppose so.”

She allows herself to be pressed down onto the mattress, letting out a little sigh of contentment as the feeling settles over her like a blanket. She kisses Raelle nice and slow, enjoying the feeling of Raelle’s weight on her, their legs tangled together, and Raelle’s fluffy straw-colored hair falling in her dove-soft eyes. 

They make love quietly while the rain comes down outside. 

*****

Of course, it doesn’t last.

(Scylla’s never been one to believe that beautiful things _can_ , but, oh, San Junipero almost had her fooled.)

Their honeymoon passes like a summer afternoon—endless and warm and bright right up until the moment it isn’t. Right up until the morning, seven days after the wedding, when Scylla wakes up with a spill of sunlight in her eyes.

Raelle is in the bed beside her, already awake. “Hey, beautiful,” she says.

And even though it’s just like any other mornings before—every morning Scylla can remember in San Junipero—Scylla immediately senses the difference. There’s a distinct wobble in Raelle’s voice, even though her eyes are bright and smiling, just like always; and the hand that’s resting on Scylla’s hip through the bedsheet feels _heavy_ , almost proprietary. Like if Raelle can just hold her here, in bed with her, she can keep her from being snatched away.

(Scylla knows she would let her, if she tried.

She knows just as well that, when it comes down to it, Raelle won’t try to hold her back.)

So she says, “No.”

Raelle sighs. Some of the light goes out of her eyes—Scylla suspected all along that was just for her benefit—and she suddenly looks utterly exhausted and defeated. And with a lump in her throat and a familiar burning behind her eyes, Scylla thanks that maybe, this is as close as she’ll get to the Raelle she never met. The living girl with the weight of the world on her shoulders.

“Scyl—” 

“ _No_ ,” Scylla repeats. There’s a wobble in her voice now, too, even more pronounced than Raelle’s, but she doesn’t care. She shakes her head, ducking to avoid Raelle’s eyes, and says it again. “Raelle, no. Not today.”

Raelle reaches over and folds her into her arms—pressing her against her chest and cradling her head the way Scylla’s mother used to. She can hear the strong, steady thrum of Raelle’s heartbeat in her chest, hear each shaky intake of breath right next to her ear, and it’s all so unbearably tender that—even though it’s the last thing she wants to do right now—Scylla cries.

And Raelle holds her. She strokes her hair and whispers _shh, shh_ and lets Scylla cry all over her chest, but when she presses her lips to Scylla’s forehead, Scylla can feel the tears on her cheeks, too. She thinks it might break her in half if she has to actually _see_ Raelle crying, so she buries her face in the crook of her neck and holds her, too.

It seems like a long time passes before Raelle finally puts an index finger under Scylla’s chin, tipping her face up to look at her. The blue of her eyes seems so much brighter than before, and the look in them is fierce.

“We said seven days for a honeymoon,” she says. Her voice is still rough with tears, but it holds steady. “If it’s not today, you’ll never go.”

“Then I’ll never go.” 

“Scylla.”

“ _Raelle_.” Scylla knows she’s being petulant, but she can’t bring herself to care. Not when it already hurts so much worse than she even expected it to. “Don’t ask me to.” She swallows hard. “Don’t ask me to be without you.”

(She knows Raelle won’t stop her from going, but part of her desperately wishes she _would_.)

Raelle tucks a stray piece of hair behind Scylla’s ear and lets her hand linger, curling around the side of her neck. “You could never be without me,” she murmurs, almost more to herself than to Scylla. “I’ll _always_ be with you, wherever you are.” 

Scylla wishes she could believe it. Wishes she were the kind of brave, selfless person for whom a promise like that could be enough. She isn’t. She’s Orpheus, looking back even though she knows it will ruin her. Looking back because the idea of not seeing Raelle one last time is almost more intolerable than having to leave her at all. 

Raelle seems to be following the line of her thoughts, because she gently cups Scylla’s face in her hands and makes her look her in the eye. “You have to go, Scyl,” she says seriously. “Your parents are right. There’s so much waiting for you, and I—I can’t be the reason you miss it all. I won’t.”

She looks fiercely determined as she says it—exactly like the sort of brave, selfless person Scylla _isn’t_. It seems to Scylla the most incredible, impossible gift: that someone like her can be loved by someone like Raelle.

(To have and waste a gift like that seems worse than never having it in the first place.)

So she turns her face in Raelle’s hands and presses a cool kiss into the center of Raelle’s palm. 

“All right,” she says. The words come far more easily than it seems they should. “Not yet, though.”

“Scyl—”

“Tonight,” Scylla insists. “Tonight I’ll go. But today—” 

She rolls Raelle underneath her so she’s straddling her hips. Raelle’s hands come to settle at her waist, and when she smiles up at Scylla, it’s weak, but it’s real.

“We still have today,” Raelle finishes for her. One of her hands slips between their bodies, reaching; when her fingers brush up against her, Scylla nods and closes her eyes.

*****

They spend the rest of the morning making love, and only manage to peel themselves out of bed when Raelle notices the time. “We won’t make it back to the beach before nightfall,” she advises, squinting at the digital clock next to the bed. Her head is on Scylla’s chest, notched beneath her chin. She sounds so casual when she says it, as if there’s nothing larger at stake here than the two of them making it home before dark, and Scylla just wraps her arms around her tighter for a second before letting her go.

“You’re right,” she agrees, and reluctantly slips out of bed and starts hunting for her clothes. “We’d better be getting home.”

(The truth: Scylla already _is_ home.)

(The truth: knowing that only makes everything worse.)

They drive back to Raelle’s beach house in silence, holding hands the whole way. It’s another perfect day of sunshine, blue sky and blue sea and the bustling hub of the city rising up to meet them as they make their way down the deserted roads toward the beach. Every now and then Raelle lifts their joined hands to her mouth and kisses Scylla’s fingers, till Scylla feels like she’s made of the thinnest glass imaginable. Like a strong gust of wind might shatter her to pieces.

Her parents are waiting for them at the beach house, sitting on the porch in quiet conversation when Raelle pulls the car into the driveway. They’re holding hands as they talk. It’s nothing Scylla hasn’t seen before—her parents were always tactile people—but it freezes her in place when she sees it now. At first she thinks it’s simply that she hasn’t witnessed this sort of thing from them since before they died, but then she turns and sees Raelle watching them, too, with a look on her face Scylla can’t bear.

She swallows hard. “We’d better go.”

“Yeah.” Raelle’s still watching Scylla’s parents, her hand hovering over the car’s gearshift. “Better go say hi.”

(Better go say _goodbye_ , is what she means; neither of them will admit this.)

It’s already close—too close—to sunset: the shadows on the beach have grown long, and the sand, when Scylla kicks off her shoes, is cool beneath her feet. She makes her way slowly up to the back porch, dragging out her steps as if that could delay the inevitable; but as soon as her father lifts his head and meets her eyes, she’s stumbling drunkenly up the rest of the way, falling sobbing into their arms like a child.

“Oh, sweetheart,” her mother says, and Scylla cries harder, unashamed.

She doesn’t know how long she stays like that, caught between her mother’s arms and her father’s. She hears the reassurances they whisper in her ear— _you’ll see us again; this won’t be forever; we’ll always be with you_ —but she can’t seem to make them _mean_ anything. 

(It’s easy for them to say this won’t be forever. They already have forever. What does Scylla have except a life?)

But then her father, gently amused, says, “All right, kid. I think your wife wants you back.” 

And it’s that word, _wife_ —that reminder of how much more she has to lose—that finally snaps Scylla out of it. She blinks up at her parents with her eyes wet and swollen, and sees Raelle hovering just over their shoulders: looking indeed like she wants to drag Scylla back into her arms, but keeping at a respectful distance, letting them have their moment.

(She thinks she’ll never run out of things she loves about Raelle. Not even if she lives a hundred years more without her.) 

Scylla hears herself say, “Okay.”

She’s not sure what it is, exactly, she’s agreeing to, but something in her parents’ posture relaxes when she says it, so she knows that whatever it was, it must have been right.

Her mother kisses the top of her head. She smooths back Scylla’s hair and thumbs the tears from her cheeks in a movement that makes Scylla feel much younger. She’s smiling, a little—not a happy smile, not quite, but one that makes Scylla feel a little bit better.

“Have a good life, my darling,” she whispers. “Be happy. You know we’ll be here waiting.”

When they leave, it’s with smiles and waves as they make their way down the path. Like it’s just the end of another day at the beach, and tomorrow, they’ll see her again. And Scylla appreciates that they’re trying to make this feel normal, but when Raelle catches her around the waist from behind, holding her upright and notching her chin on her shoulder, it also feels nice to _acknowledge_ it. Even if just a little.

“I’m here,” she whispers. “I’ve got you.”

And for right now, she does.

For right now, it’s enough. 

*****

This is how it finally ends: when the moment comes that they can’t put off any longer. When the long shadow of the beach house is swallowed in the gathering dark, and the sky goes from deep cerulean to a pale blue that’s almost silver, then burns red and gold as the sun dips into the sea.

Raelle holds Scylla’s hand tightly in hers as they make their way down to the water. Her thumb moves back and forth slowly over the wedding band on Scylla’s hand. When they reach the shoreline, they both stare in silence for a moment at the endless expanse of dark water before them. Scylla remembers how it looked from the bluffs, that gaping maw of darkness at the edge of the net of lights that makes up San Junipero.

She wonders when she’ll get to see it from up there again.

Beside her, Raelle takes in a slow, shuddering breath. The light is poor enough that it’s already hard to see her, and Scylla _promised_ herself she wouldn’t cry again—figured she cried herself out enough today already—but this realization makes her eyes sting all the same. She squeezes Raelle’s hand to prove to herself that she’s still there beside her, and when Raelle turns to face her, Scylla realizes she doesn’t have enough light to see her by. Not really. 

“I want you to know,” Raelle says, in a voice on the edge of breaking, “that I love you. So fucking much, Scyl.”

Scylla swallows hard around the lump in her throat. She means to say _I love you too_ , but what comes out is: “I can’t do this without you, Raelle.”

Her voice sounds so small, so thin. She hears Raelle laugh wetly, and then she’s being drawn into her arms, their foreheads pressed together, Raelle’s hands cupping her face. 

“You won’t be without me.” There are tears in Raelle’s voice now, and Scylla presses her forehead harder against hers. Because what else, now, can she do? “I’ll be right here waiting for you. No matter how long it takes.”

Her thumb is stroking Scylla’s cheek with aching gentleness. Scylla makes herself hold still for it, makes herself memorize the way Raelle’s hands feel on her skin. 

“It might be a while, though.”

“No matter how long it takes,” Raelle repeats, firm. “That’s why you married me, right? Don’t forget.”

Scylla laughs. It comes out sounding like a sob, and Raelle’s hands tighten instinctively around her. 

“Never,” she promises. “I’d never forget. There’s no one like you, Raelle Collar. Not in this life or any other.” 

Her voice cracks on the last syllable. She’s crying, again, despite her best efforts otherwise, but her face is pressed up against Raelle’s, and she can feel the tears on her face, too.

When Raelle kisses her it’s wet and messy and perfect, and it’s a long, long moment before they break apart.

“ _Ramshorn-_ Collar,” she hears Raelle murmur—almost-not-quite in that familiar, teasing tone Scylla adores. “See? Not even gone yet and you’re already trying to get out of this marriage.” 

And Scylla just laughs through her tears and drags her in for another kiss, simply because she _can_. Simply because, in a moment, she won’t be able to. Not for a long, long time.

“Shut up,” she says against Raelle’s lips. “You’re ridiculous.” 

“Yeah.” Raelle pulls away just enough so their eyes can meet. It’s dark enough now that Scylla can’t make out their color. “You still love me, though.”

The lump in Scylla’s throat swells to the point where she can’t speak. Instead, she kisses every part of Raelle’s face she can reach—her forehead, her eyelids, the scar on her jaw. Raelle tangles her hand in Scylla’s hair and sighs.

“Yes,” Scylla says, because even though it’s hard to speak, this just might be the most important thing she ever says. “I love you. More than anything.”

“More than the stars above,” Raelle agrees. “Scyl—” Her voice is serious now, her hands moving around to touch Scylla’s face. “You’re so strong, Scyl. And you’re gonna do great things, I know it. I just wish—”

And Scylla _knows_ , in that moment, what she’s thinking of: her parents holding hands on the back porch at the beach house. She knows, because she’s thinking it too. 

(San Junipero may be paradise, but it’s not perfect. And here is one of the places it falls short: she and Raelle will never get to grow old together. They’ll never _live_ together, the way Scylla’s parents did.)

So Scylla says, “I know. I wish you could be there for it, too.”

There’s nothing much more to say, after that. They stand there for a while, locked in an embrace so tight Scylla knows she’ll still be able to feel it once she wakes, and the thought makes her draw Raelle closer. She can feel her heartbeat and smell her skin and bury her face in her neck, press her mouth against her pulse point and feel her sigh in response. She’s the realest thing Scylla’s ever held.

“Just remember,” Raelle whispers next to her ear. “One day . . .”

“One day,” Scylla echoes, and when they kiss again, it’s the end of the world.

It’s the end of the world when, a minute later, Scylla manages to tear herself away. Her skin feels painful and exposed in the cool air without Raelle’s skin against it, but still she walks out into the dark water, leaving Raelle on the shore. 

(She’s not sure what will happen, but something about it feels right.)

Before she ducks her head beneath the waves she looks back. Just once.

(She is Orpheus, after all.)

*****

The sterile white walls of the infirmary greet her when she wakes.

Her face is wet with tears.

In her mouth, she tastes the ocean.

*****

It’s unbearable, waking up. Adjusting to living again.

She’s used to the bright colors of San Junipero—the sparkling ocean and endless summer afternoons and the cotton-candy fluorescent nightlife. Fort Salem is nothing like that, cold and impersonal and washed out, even with the gardens and rolling hills flush with the bloom of summer. Scylla’s always noticed it, but now the contrast is so starkly apparent that it’s melancholic.

She wishes she were by the water again with Raelle, lying on sand and basking in the hot sun, the air thick with the scent of salt and brine, the bustle of the city in the distance. She wants to be pressed up against Raelle at Tucker’s, swaying in time to a back-beat, buzzing with alcohol and the heat between them.

Sitting with Glory and Libba at lunch, laughing over some ridiculous tale from their days in Basic; sharing a quiet evening with her parents; curled up next to Raelle on the bluffs overlooking the town, teaching her the constellations. 

The Fixers don’t believe her when she tells them about San Junipero, dismissing it with a wave of their hands and amused chuckles. _It was just a dream_ , they tell her. A way for her mind to mend itself along with the rest of her body. 

She gets odd looks when she insists to the contrary, and they shoo her out of the infirmary as soon as possible, offering platitudes that she’ll be cleared for active duty soon, that there’s surely a commendation and promotion for her already in the works. 

As if Scylla cares about something like that. 

But Izadora believes her.

Izadora, Scylla’s old teacher, now the head of the Necro department at Fort Salem. She’s added a pretty stripe to her uniform to go along with her new rank of Captain and she looks older than Scylla remembers. But she’s still got that same winsome smile, familiar from all the times Scylla offered to assist her in the Necro mausoleum, the two of them working late into the evening. Her office is still dim-lit and crowded, but surprisingly homely, and she pours them both a cup of tea as Scylla relays the story of her time spent standing at the crossroads of life and death.

Izadora L’Amara is the only person in the military Scylla’s ever respected, despite her nauseating love for the institution of it all. Scylla grudgingly admired her, even in Basic, when she was still learning to control her white hot anger. Izadora was kind; she listened. She never judged Scylla for her Dodger childhood, not like so many others in the Army did. She encouraged Scylla to be strong, taught her that loyalty didn’t always mean playing by the rules.

Scylla remembers the way Izadora’s eyes shone with pride when Scylla graduated top of her class in War College. For a fraction of a second that day, Scylla felt a tiny twinge of affection.

So it only makes sense now that Scylla should go to her, seeking answers—and reassurance. Because as much as Scylla’s loath to admit it, she _needs_ someone. She’s tired of putting up walls and cutting herself off from the rest of the world. She’s beaten down. Tired. She spent her whole life fighting everything and everyone—including herself.

For a shining moment she was given a brief respite from it all. Now, she’s crumbling under the weight.

“Other witches have seen the Summerlands, yes,” Izadora agrees, sounding fascinated. “But none so vividly—and for as long—as you.” She leans back in her chair thoughtfully. “I wonder why.”

Scylla shrugs, turning her cup in her hands. “I don’t know.”

She’s wondered about it herself. She’s torn through the base’s library, looking for any scrap of the Summerlands she could find. There doesn’t seem to be any special correlation between witches who’ve reported their visions; certainly, none of them have anything in common with Scylla. 

So she offers up the only idea she’s had that doesn’t sound patently absurd or self-important: “I’ve always had a close relationship with death.”

Izadora nods, like she understands. Maybe a part of her does.

But Scylla’s talking about more than just what happened to her parents. She’s thinking about all the civilian blood on her hands—some of it for survival before the Spree found her, but more of it from _after_ that. The girls in her platoon who were cut down in the prime of their life, right before her eyes.

“I know it was real,” Scylla insists. “I _felt_ it.”

But sometimes, it all feels so far away. Like something she _did_ dream up.

She might be inclined to believe that, too, if not for the gold ring on her finger. She woke up wearing it—San Junipero’s version of a _forget-me-not_. Just looking at it makes Scylla feel better; it brings Raelle closer to her, even if just for a moment. In the quiet of night she finds herself turning the ring over and over again on her finger, just as she watched Raelle do a hundred times before. 

It’s the little things she misses the most. The small, forgettable moments.

Just like when she lost her parents.

The pain of their absence hasn’t been so acute since she was sixteen. Fresh blood welling up through sliced scar tissue, spilling out like an overflowing fountain.

She knows she’ll see them all again. But it doesn’t make it hurt any less. If anything, the pain’s more unbearable this way; knowing they’re there, only just out of reach.

In the first few weeks after waking up, she catches herself slipping into moments of darkness.

She thinks: _I could see them again. I could go back to them._

But dying would be so easy. Her parents want more for her than that; they want her to atone for her actions, to be strong and do the right thing, no matter how difficult.

And Raelle believes in her.

 _You’re gonna do great things. I just know it_.

The way her whole face lit up when she smiled, as if Scylla was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. 

Scylla loves Raelle and her parents too much to disappoint them.

(And what is love, if not sacrifice?)

*****

Time passes.

Slowly, at first. But as weeks bleed into months, Scylla finds herself adjusting, despite herself. She wishes that it weren’t so, but she knows that time abates the sting of any loss, no matter how great. She’s grateful at least for the knowledge that she will see them again one day; she clings to the idea of her future happiness.

It is, after all, the only thing she has left now.

Despite being cleared for active duty, she’s been relegated to assisting Izadora with research in the Necro facilities. During her vacation to San Junipero, the war against the Camarilla escalated. Moved beyond the guerilla warfare of Scylla’s days in War College. They’ve become more organized, their attacks more coordinated and devastating than before―in part due to a resurgence in civilian support.

Scylla throws herself into her work. It’s monotonous, mindless, but it keeps her busy. If she’s not running experiments for Izadora, she’s paging through dusty tomes in the library in an attempt to dredge up long-forgotten Work. The days of relying purely on Canon Work are fading as the need for more powerful weapons against the Camarilla intensifies. And Scylla would be glad for it, if not for the bitter knowledge that it’s only _now_ ―with their backs pressed against the wall―that the military has realized they must use all the tools at their disposal.

If only it had not taken centuries of countless witch deaths for them to understand that the burning times had never stopped―and never would. 

(It’s always the Camarilla who should have feared them; never the other way around.)

In another world, perhaps witches would have realized everything sooner. Perhaps the Spree and Army would have become a united front in the liberation of witches. Perhaps, maybe, Scylla’s parents wouldn’t have been hunted down and slaughtered as traitors. Perhaps Raelle might have lived to grow old, happy, and strong until her last breath. Perhaps― 

Well. There’s no use thinking of what might have been.

“You know,” Izadora begins one afternoon, as Scylla hands her a stack of reports. “Samhain is next week.” Her smile is kind. “The veil between worlds is always thin on that day. And through dreams, the dead speak to us.”

Scylla doesn’t dare hope; but the thought takes hold of her anyway. Her heart gives a tiny leap. “Do you . . . think I could see her again?” 

Izadora shrugs. “It’s possible. Your connection to the afterlife is stronger than most.”

She stands, putting a hand on Scylla’s shoulder and giving it a comforting squeeze. For a breath of a second she reminds Scylla of her mother. Her eyes hold the same kindness. The same gentle understanding. The thought carries a sharp ache, and for an awful moment Scylla is struck with the urge to throw her arms around Izadora. To hold her, just for a heartbeat, chasing the memory of someone else.

But the moment dissipates as quickly as it comes.

“If it’s any consolation,” Izadora adds lightly, as Scylla turns to leave. And there’s a catch in her voice that is unmistakable―the understanding of grief, of a loved snatched away much too soon―a story all witches are far too familiar with.

Izadora clears her throat. “I really hope you see them again.”

*****

“Scylla.”

They’re standing at the bar in Tucker’s with a set of drinks in front of them. Raelle’s dressed much like on the evening they first met, leaning back in her chair and gazing at Scylla with a look of wonder. Her eyes are so blue―how could Scylla have forgotten? The color of spring sky, the sun coming out after a storm.

Surely it must be a dream.

“It _is_ a dream,” Raelle says, as if reading her mind. “But it’s also not.”

She leans forward, putting her hand to Scylla’s cheek. Scylla leans into the touch. Goddess, she’s _missed_ this. She’s missed it more than she even knew. The stroke of Raelle’s thumb across her skin makes her grow sleepy with warmth.

She’s _home_ again. Even if only for a little while. 

It’s perfect. It’s everything she wanted.

It’s the worst thing she’s ever experienced. 

A small taste of happiness, measured out by the slow ticks of a clock. 

“It’s Samhain,” Scylla explains, covering Raelle’s hand with her own. “That must be it. Someone told me―I didn’t want to hope. I thought you’d only be a memory. But here I am.”

 _Here_ is the only place she wants to be. 

Raelle nods slowly with understanding. “Only a few hours.”

Scylla kisses her and it’s the realest she’s felt in the last six months.

Raelle tastes like honeyed whiskey. When Scylla presses close to her, she can smell the ocean. Salt and sand and the cloud-licked sky. 

They make love under the stars on the moonlight-drenched beach. It’s as bright and beautiful as Scylla remembers. It feels as if she never left. Raelle’s fingers trail along her bare skin, setting her alight with a touch. Raelle’s hair falls in her eyes and Scylla brushes it away, cupping her face in her hands and kissing her until they’re both breathless. 

Afterwards, stretched out on the dunes on the old blanket from the house, Scylla recounts everything that’s happened to her since she woke up. It’s strange―while living it, it never felt like much. But in explaining it all now, she realizes just how much things have changed in only a short time. How different it is from San Junipero, frozen in perpetuity. 

Raelle listens with rapt attention, as if Scylla’s stories about dull lab work are intensely fascinating. It makes Scylla’s heart swell.

“I’ve missed you so much,” Raelle admits quietly. “Just listening to you talk―your voice, how you get so excited over the weirdest things.” She smiles, bringing their joined hands to her mouth to kiss Scylla’s knuckles.

Scylla snorts. “Weird?”

“Sexy weird.” Raelle kisses the back of her hand. “I like it.” And then, softer, she asks, “Éì ramé wèlá jìnà?”

Scylla stares at Raelle, feeling warm all the way down to her toes, then laughs. “Who taught you that?”

Raelle grins conspiratorially. “Your parents. I might have pestered them a little bit. Méníshè’s _hard_. But I’ve got all the time in the world. And I wanted to be able to impress my wife.” She shuffles a bit closer, resting her forehead against Scylla’s. “Gonna get them to teach me the names of the stars, too.”

“Well, what will be left for _me_ to teach you?” Scylla teases, humming with pleasure as Raelle works her hand free, her arm sliding around Scylla’s waist and drawing their bodies flush. She kisses the bridge of Raelle’s nose. “Of course I love you. Always. Only you."

After that, they don’t speak until sunrise; content to lie in the quiet bliss of each other’s company. At one point Raelle dozes off and Scylla watches her, propped up on one elbow, trying to burn the image of this moment into her mind. The slow rise and fall of Raelle’s chest; the slight part of her lips; the miniscule twitch of her eyes behind her eyelids. The way she looks so open and unguarded. 

Scylla can imagine a thousand lifetimes of waking up to see Raelle beside her like this. But she’d trade eternity without a thought if it meant being able to have it in life; to wake up in her tiny barracks room and see her wife asleep next to her as the first rays of sunlight break through the dawn. 

Raelle, sleepy-eyed and tousled, stirs and pulls her in for a long kiss. “Same time next year?” Her tone is soft, playful, but Scylla knows her eyes burn with tears.

For her, it’s much the same.

*****

The Spree and the Army fought for so long.

Sometimes Scylla forgets that they’re all on the same side now. 

But that’s the thing about a common enemy—it means letting go of the past. And while the bad blood isn’t completely gone—as Izadora’s right hand woman, Scylla still feels that old lick of fury every time she’s forced into an audience with Sarah Alder—for the most part both sides have made well on their agreement to set aside old grudges and prejudices.

Which entails, eventually, the release of prisoners on both sides. Years after a truce was brokered—and Scylla can’t help but grit her teeth, thinking about all the Spree and Dodgers alike who were left to rot in the military’s Caribbean prison, even when they were no longer considered enemies of the state—but better late than never, she supposes.

Scylla isn’t exactly sure why she feels compelled to volunteer to assist with the release of all the Army’s prisoners. She likes to think it’s borne solely out of sympathy for the types of people who gave her a community when she was at her lowest, but she knows herself too well. There’s a driving sense of guilt, because she was able to escape such a fate. Even after all the horrible things she did.

Her mother’s voice echoes in the back of her mind: _Think of all the good you could still do._

(Truthfully, Scylla’s unconvinced she could ever do enough good to tip the scales of justice in her favor.)

(But—and she can hear her father’s gentle tone in her head here—she should at least _try_.)

Of all the people she could be paired with on this assignment, of _course_ it’s Lieutenant Anacostia Quartermaine, Raelle’s old drill Sergeant. Scylla laughs when Anacostia introduces herself, because surely the universe must have the grimmest sense of humor. 

She introduces herself only as Scylla Ramshorn. It feels wrong not to tack on _Collar_ at the end, but she never does; it’s just easier not to. She always feels guilty about ducking the potential uncomfortable silence that would follow such a thing. Raelle may be dead, but Raelle is still her wife; she deserves respect. And Scylla so badly wants to honor her.

But she also thinks Raelle would understand the omission; she always knew better than anyone how the military treated wedded couples who dared to exist outside of the accepted norm.

“I’ve heard a _lot_ about you,” Scylla says, shaking Anacostia’s hand.

If Anacostia is curious to know what or how a strange, freshly-promoted Necro Lieutenant Sergeant knows about her, she’s awfully good at pretending not to be. She shakes Scylla’s hand with a curt nod and Scylla takes an instant liking to her—mostly because it’s _fun_ to try and rattle people with solid poker faces, and Anacostia clearly has a good one.

(There’s no reason she has to amend _all_ her old bad habits, after all.)

Though Anacostia really isn’t that bad, Scylla soon learns; she’s an old friend of Izadora’s, and apparently used to dealing with Necros who start rattling off random facts involving fungi when things get boring. And for the first two weeks, it’s _incredibly_ boring: there’s mountains of paperwork to fill out, sort, and file. Pages and pages of documents to censor.

It’s the kind of busywork that’s usually meant to be punishment—and it probably _would_ be, if there wasn’t so much sensitive information involved. Apparently the Army isn’t fond of just anyone finding out about all the prisoners they stashed away when they grew tired of trying to torture or coerce information out of them. 

She’s on her last stack of inmate folders when she sees the name: _Collar, Willa_.

And surely, it couldn’t be—

But when she flips the manila folder open and sees the conscription photo paper-clipped to the first page, she knows that it _is_ , in fact, possible. Even if Scylla _hadn’t_ seen the picture of Willa tacked up on Raelle’s mirror a hundred times, she’d know her anywhere. The woman staring up at her has Raelle’s same clear blue eyes. The same aureate hair. It’s Raelle’s mother, through and through. 

She can feel all the pieces slotting together in her brain. How Willa supposedly died in combat, but there wasn’t enough of her body left to send home to be buried. How Raelle looked and looked for her in San Junipero, searching fruitlessly for _years_ , only to come up empty handed, bitterly believing it was because Willa didn’t want to be found. 

Willa had been _here_ the whole time. Living and breathing, stuck in a damp cell in Saint-Domingue. 

All this time.

If Scylla had known—

(Maybe she couldn’t have done anything, but she could have _tried_. She could have consoled Raelle, at least. Let her know the truth.)

Scylla scans the intake form: _arrested under suspicion of treason, seditious talk, attempted desertion._

Willa’s meant to be released at the end of the month. Released, however, doesn’t mean _free_. The military doesn’t have any intention of letting Spree and Dodgers simply walk out of prison untethered. _Mandatory rehabilitation_ it’s called, but for all intents and purposes it’s a year long house arrest sentence to be served on the lovely grounds of Fort Salem.

With Seed-blocking collars, of course. 

Her hands shake as she flips through the folder, looking at the pages and pages of Willa’s surprisingly illustrious military career. Raelle never talked about her mother _that_ much, and whenever she did it was always in the most glowing terms—but Scylla never realized just how _true_ it was. Despite the fact that Willa’s constant deployments were punishments, she excelled with her Work.

(Scylla thinks back to that evening in San Junipero, when she collapsed. How Raelle gripped her tight. Even in death, Raelle acted on instinct to try and save her.)

Willa was— _is_ —a talented Fixer. Her daughter would have surely surpassed her, in time.

Again Scylla feels that now familiar sting of anger. Because of all that was taken from Raelle.

All because the military let her believe Willa died. Because of fucking Sarah Alder and the whole corrupt system. Because of the idea that witches might not want to live and die at the luxury of civilians and governments and High Atlantics too power hungry to care who was ground up into bloody war meat. 

They stripped Raelle of everything she had, bit by bit, until she was buried before she ever even said the Oath. 

“You all right, Ramshorn?” Anacostia asks, staring at her from across the table. “You’ve been staring at that file for ten minutes. This is the quietest you’ve been all week.”

And Scylla could lie. She could calmly set the folder aside and pretend it means nothing to her. But it’s been a year since she woke up, returned to military life, and she’s so tired of pretending.

Before, she would have had no problem tamping down her rage and hiding behind a false smile, happy to play the part of a good soldier.

Not anymore. 

She can’t quite say Willa’s the mother of her wife, though. So instead she says, “Just a name I recognize.”

Anacostia takes the file from her, flipping it open, her expression unreadable.

A long moment passes.

Then another.

And then Anacostia speaks, quietly, to say something that Scylla never expected—she’s left staring, dumfounded.

“Would you like to see her?”

*****

It takes some time, but Anacostia makes good on her word.

Scylla’s not used to people being kind to her, especially not straight-laced military types like Anacostia. But Anacostia clearly has hidden depths. Maybe it’s because she too is an orphan—Scylla might have weaseled that information out of Izadora—but a _lot_ of orphans have called Fort Salem home over the years. Scylla doesn’t think she’s anyone particularly special.

“Thank you,” she says, when Anacostia informs her that she’s arranged for them to meet. “That was . . . unexpected.”

“Don’t get soft on me, Ramshorn.” Anacostia’s voice is cool and even, but there’s a distinctive quirk at the corners of her mouth. “Despite your proclivity for snark, you’re a diligent worker. And I know what you went through all those months in the infirmary. Anyone else would have requested a special dispensation. Dedicated soldiers like you are rare.”

Scylla nods. Anacostia’s pride in her is completely misplaced, but it’s also oddly comforting. Izadora praises her all the time, but this feels different. It feels—Scylla searches for the right word, finally settles on _special_. Because Anacostia isn’t just any superior officer. She’s someone who, however small, was a part of Raelle’s life.

And maybe that’s why Scylla can’t help herself. She blurts out, “Do you remember a Raelle Collar?”

Anacostia blinks. Just for a second, her usually composed expression slips, growing soft with nostalgia—or sorrow. “I do. She was . . . talented. Could have been a great Fixer. But . . .” she trails off, shaking her head. She fixes Scylla with a curious stare, and Scylla can practically _hear_ the cogs in her head turning. “That’s why you’re so interested in Willa, isn’t it?”

Scylla fidgets with her wedding ring. “Something like that.”

Like before, Anacostia doesn’t press, though Scylla senses that she would _really_ like to. Scylla wants to tell Anacostia the truth. But she’s not quite ready for that.

One day. When they have more time.

*****

Willa isn’t what Scylla expects.

She’s reserved where Raelle’s outgoing. Stiff where Raelle is charming. Her eyes have lost their shine and she looks aged beyond her years. It fills Scylla with dual feelings of pity and anger. She can _see_ the shadows of Raelle in Willa, but it’s clear that her years of deployment and imprisonment have taken a heavy toll.

She looks tired—she _sounds_ tired when she says, “Lieutenant Anacostia told me you wanted to talk to me. Can’t imagine what for; I don’t recognize your name. Was your mother in my platoon for a tour?”

“My parents didn’t serve. They . . .” she hesitates. Even now, years later, she still has that same lingering fear and shame. Willa is Raelle’s mother, though—more than that, she should understand Scylla’s past better than anyone, if what was in her inmate file is the truth. “They were Dodgers. They . . . the Military Police caught up with us one day.”

She doesn’t need to elaborate. She can see from the way Willa’s shoulders sag that she understands completely.

“I’m sorry.”

“It was a long time ago.”

“Time doesn’t heal a wound like that,” Willa says, and Scylla wonders if it’s as much a confession as it is sympathy. “You’ve read my file, I assume. So you know all about what happened to me.”

Scylla pauses as they reach the edges of the lake, far away from the rest of the main campus, taking in the view of the late spring afternoon.

The way the sunlight dapples off the still water is reminiscent of her honeymoon. The second to last day, when she and Raelle woke up to watch the sun come up over the mountains. Raelle, wrapping a blanket around the both of them, her chin tucked firmly against Scylla’s shoulder. Her light, ticklish kisses along Scylla’s neck. The way she laughed when Scylla jokingly threatened to windstrike her into the lake.

(“I thought Necros were non-combative!”)

She takes a deep breath. “Can I ask—”

Willa cuts her off with a hand on her shoulder. “I wanted to protect my family. It might not make sense, but it’s true. I was going to desert, join the Spree. Had it all planned out.” A wry smile. “It didn’t work out.”

 _I’m familiar with that concept_ , Scylla wants to say.

But she says nothing, only listens as Willa continues.

“I thought maybe—well, it sounds reckless now, in hindsight. I thought maybe I could keep my daughter safe.”

“Raelle. Did—I’m so sorry—” Scylla fumbles, unable to meet Willa’s gaze. “Did they tell you—?”

“Of course.” Willa’s voice is strained, trembling. “It was another tool for them to use to try and break me. Not that there was much left to break.” She laughs bitterly, then holds Scylla’s gaze, staring at her expectantly. “I’m still waiting for you to tell me why you wanted to see me.”

It really should _not_ be so hard to say this. Scylla’s wearing Willa’s old ring, for Goddess’ sake. She knows a million tiny details about Raelle’s life. She can prove her relationship with Raelle a thousand times over.

But Scylla’s never met any of her lovers’ parents before, and Scylla feels a particularly enormous pressure to win Willa over. Not just because she means so much to Raelle—Willa is _delicate_. She’s suffered, perhaps more than Scylla could ever guess. And Scylla’s absolutely terrified that Willa won’t believe her. That she’ll assume this is just another cruel ploy; a parting shot. 

Scylla knows all about that kind of fear.

Willa senses her hesitation. “Whatever it is,” she says kindly, “I’ll listen.”

It’s all Scylla needs to hear: a quiet confirmation that Willa trusts her.

“Raelle’s my wife,” is how she starts the story, reaching for Willa’s hand so she can show her the ring.

The most important things should come first, after all.

*****

Willa’s quiet for a long time after Scylla tells her everything.

At long last, she speaks. “Thank you.”

Hot tears spring to Scylla’s eyes, threatening to spill over. “No, I—I’m the one who should thank you. For listening. For . . . well, for everything, I guess. For trying to keep Raelle safe. For loving her so much. For teaching her how to be strong. She’s strong. And clever. And gentle. She always wanted to make you proud.” And then, after a pause, she adds, “She misses you so much. She never stopped looking for you.”

“I’m sorry for that,” Willa says, looking every bit as relieved and mournful as Scylla feels.

“Don’t be,” Scylla tells her firmly. “What happened wasn’t anyone’s fault.”

“Still.” Willa’s eyes are far away, gazing at something just over Scylla’s shoulder. Imagining, maybe, as Scylla so often does, that Raelle’s standing there beside her.

(In a better, fairer world, she would be.)

“Our children should never have to suffer more than we did,” she says, after what feels like a long stretch of silence. “All I wanted was for her to suffer less than I did.” She pins Scylla with a shrewd look. “That’s all any parent wants, really.”

And Scylla doesn’t tell her she knows, because they both already know she does. Instead, she reaches out tentatively and touches Willa’s hand. It’s hard to say which of them is more surprised by the gesture, but Willa doesn’t try to take her hand away. 

“Raelle wasn’t suffering,” Scylla says, her voice firm and sure. “I promise. I was with her.” She needs Willa to understand: no matter how much hurt she may have caused, or how much Raelle still misses her, the girl Scylla fell in love with is not broken. She’s whole and she’s happy and she’s beautiful, and everything’s all right now. 

(There isn’t a promise in the world more beautiful than this: that someday, everything will be all right.) 

Willa meets her gaze unflinchingly, and Scylla thinks of nights on the beach with the stars overhead, mornings in bed and tipsy kisses under the neon glow of the lights at Tucker’s. She wishes there was a way to tell Willa, a way to make her understand.

But after a moment, Willa gives her a half smile and gently withdraws, leaning backwards in her chair. “I suppose you’re right,” she allows.

“I mean, she was never suffering that _I_ could—”

“Not about that,” Willa interrupts. “The last thing you said.” 

Scylla pauses, momentarily struck with confusion. The last thing she said— _I was with her_ —

She looks up at Willa, uncertainty still written on her face. Willa just looks back at her. She says nothing, but the look in her eyes suddenly seems to communicate more than she ever could with words. _You were with her_ , Scylla can almost hear her saying in her head. _That’s how I know she wasn’t suffering. She had you_.

Scylla only tears her gaze away when tears become unavoidable. Somehow, it feels wrong to cry in front of this woman, who’s been so steady even in the face of everything Scylla’s spent the past hour telling her.

“We understand each other, then,” Willa says. Her tone is brisk but not ungentle. 

“I’m right about a lot of things,” Scylla quips, swiping at her eyes, embarrassed. “I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific.”

“Sometimes you remind me so much of Raelle,” Willa says, and maybe Scylla’s imagining it, but there’s a hint of something in her voice that sounds close to tenderness. “I see why she liked you.”

*****

The weeks turn into months, and the months into years; and little by little, Scylla learns how to carry it.

It’s not so much that the memories are painful (but oh, they _are_ ). She can still dream of Raelle, of her parents, of a house on the beach where they’re waiting, and wake with tears on her face and a leaden heart; and after all that she can still, stubbornly, say that it was all worth it. She can move from one day to the next to the next, and sometimes even feel like they mean something, even if there’s a glaring absence in all of it.

She can do some good, just as she promised she would.

But she cannot learn how to live in a world that’s missing its most important piece—that, worse, doesn’t seem to _realize_ what it lacks. Scylla feels Raelle’s absence like it was carved out of her, a phantom limb, but most of the people she meets don’t even recognize her name. On the rare occasion she does come across someone who remembers—an old classmate from Basic, usually—it’s in a vague, distracted sort of way.

 _Private Collar?_ these girls say. _Deployed early? Killed in—Mongolia, was it?_

The facts of Raelle’s death—which Scylla once so badly wanted to know—are all people remember of her, here. They don’t come close to painting a picture of the beautiful, funny, generous, _selfless_ person Scylla knows. She wonders if they might be kinder to her, these girls, if they knew Raelle was her wife. If they might conjure up more of a memory—real or imagined—for her sake.

(She supposes she would be considered a war widow, if they knew. It’s the reason why she wears her ring but doesn’t bother to explain it, on the rare occasion someone asks. Because the girl she married on the beach in San Junipero is not dead, no matter what this world may think about it.)

Some four months after meeting Willa Collar, Scylla hears a few of Izadora’s younger lab assistants mention General Bellweather’s daughter. Apparently she’s already a Sergeant— _no surprise there_ , the girls mutter, _Bellweathers get in on name alone_. Scylla couldn’t care less about all that, but the name _Bellweather_ instantly makes her sit up and take notice.

Granted, there are lots of Bellweathers in the Army, but none who are young enough to be a newly-promoted Sergeant. None except, perhaps, the Bellweather who was in Raelle’s Unit in Basic. Uppity, High Atlantic Abigail, whom Scylla knows from Raelle and Libba’s stories, told with a mix of fondness and exasperation.

It _has_ to be her. 

Scylla goes looking for her. She’s not hard to find—preceded, as she is, by a lofty reputation, made loftier now that she’s one of the youngest Sergeants in the Army’s history—but she _is_ hard to get alone. Scylla doesn’t fancy having anyone else be privy to the kinds of questions she means to ask.

When she finally sees Abigail alone, for once—sitting by herself in a corner of the mess hall, contemplating a steaming cup of coffee—she doesn’t hesitate, even though she already feels tongue-tied. She takes her own coffee over to Abigail’s table and plunks herself down in front of her.

Abigail blinks slowly in surprise. “Um, hi?” she says. Every other time Scylla’s seen her, she looked every inch the military’s golden child: walking head and shoulders above the rest of them, bright and confident in her spotless dress blues. Now she just looks weary, and a little irritated. 

“Scylla Ramshorn,” she says. She doesn’t bother sticking out a hand for Abigail to shake. “I work with Izadora over in the Necro department.”

“Okay.” Abigail draws the word out longer than necessary, then glances at her cup of coffee as if it has all the answers. “But, like, do I _know_ you?”

“We have a . . . mutual friend.” Scylla winces internally at how inadequate that sounds. Her thumb unconsciously moves to trace the wedding ring on her left hand. “Somebody told me she was part of your unit in Basic.”

“What, Tally?” Abigail shrugs. “I can tell you her CO’s name, but last I heard she was deployed . . . somewhere.” Unless Scylla’s mistaken, there’s a bitter edge in Abigail’s voice. “We’re not really in touch.”

“Not Tally.” Scylla swallows hard; her hands are shaking. “Raelle Collar.”

She definitely doesn’t imagine the way Abigail’s face changes at that. It becomes just the littlest bit softer, which, remarkably, makes Scylla feel steadier, too. If Abigail Bellweather is sorry Raelle’s gone, that’s already so much better than anyone else she’s met so far. 

“Raelle,” Abigail says. “Yeah, I knew her. Just for a little while, but I knew her.” Her eyes have a faraway look about them that suddenly vanishes when she glances at Scylla. “How did _you_ know her? No offense, but I don’t remember her ever mentioning you.”

Scylla shrugs and averts her gaze. This is where things get tricky. 

“It was after Basic,” she says vaguely. “You and I wouldn’t have met.” 

“So, what, you were with her platoon in—? No.” Abigail narrows her eyes. “You said you worked with L’Amara. You wouldn’t have been in her platoon. You wouldn’t have _known_ her, after she deployed.”

Nothing for it, then, but to put it all on the line. Scylla moves her hands onto the table where Abigail can see them; she sees Abigail’s eyes track the movement, but if she recognizes the ring, she doesn’t comment on it.

“Look,” she says, “if this is some kind of joke, it’s _really_ not funny. Raelle was—”

“Her witch mark,” Scylla interrupts. “You never saw it, I bet.”

Abigail looks hilariously confused by the way the conversation has turned. “I don’t see what that’s—I mean, no, _obviously_ not, wasn’t it on her— _what_ is this about?”

“Her inner thigh,” Scylla interrupts in a rush. “It was on her inner thigh.”

Abigail blinks at her. “That’s what she said the day I met her,” she says, slowly, realization dawning. “Tally asked where her mark was and she said—”

“About an inch from her vagina.” Of all the ways Scylla thought this conversation might go, discussing her wife’s vagina with Abigail Bellweather did not even come into consideration. “She’s embarrassed about that.”

The confusion on Abigail’s face melts away into something infinitely stranger. “I—yeah,” she says slowly. “How’d you—wait, she _is_ embarrassed?”

And Scylla thinks, _fuck it_. Abigail’s looking at her with huge, shocked eyes, but there’s no doubt in her expression—none of the disbelief Scylla braced for. It might even be good for her, to be honest with someone other than Izadora about everything that’s happened to her.

So what she says is, “You’ve heard of the Summerlands, I assume?” 

*****

Afterwards, Abigail insists that they go find Tally.

Apparently, she doesn’t have anywhere more pressing to be, either—or maybe her newly-elevated status gives her more freedom to come and go as she pleases. Whatever the reason, she all but drags Scylla from the mess hall, talking mostly to herself about the last place she knew Tally was deployed, and _maybe they’ve come back already?_

“They were close,” she adds, turning to give Scylla a brief look. “Tally and Rae, I mean. Maybe even more than she and I were.”

And for the first time since she got back from San Junipero, Scylla feels totally, utterly warm inside. It’s the casual way Abigail says _Rae_ , and the glimpse, however brief, into her life before she died—everything, in short, Scylla had hoped would come out of talking with Abigail.

Tally, miraculously, _is_ back from deployment. She’s staying in the barracks with the rest of her platoon, but Scylla knows who she is by the way her eyes get wide when Abigail comes thundering in, Scylla awkwardly trailing on her heels. But Tally follows readily enough when Abigail says they have to talk, even though Scylla can tell by the awkward, careful way they orbit around one another that if they were close before, they haven’t been in a while.

(And, like a reflex, she wonders: is this another thing that might have been different, had Raelle survived?)

Abigail takes them onto the grounds, ducking under the hanging branches of an oak tree so old and massive that it almost completely shields them from the rest of Fort Salem. They settle as comfortably as they can on the ground, and then Scylla tells them everything. 

(And it’s strange at first, being this candid with two people she really doesn’t know. Scylla spends a lot of the telling staring at the ground between her feet, until she risks a glance up and sees the two of them looking at her with a hunger she recognizes all too well.)

(These are people who loved Raelle, too.)

Tally gasps and exclaims at the right moments, interrupting now and then with questions and commentary. When Scylla tells them about being approached by Raelle at Tucker’s, Tally actually laughs out loud. 

“Sorry,” she says, not sounding particularly contrite. “It’s just, she _would_.” She nudges Abigail, who rolls her eyes and smiles. “Good to know that death can’t stop Rae from hitting on pretty girls.”

“Careful,” Abigail says evenly, though not without a trace of humor. “That’s her wife you’re talking to, Craven.” 

Abigail, for her part, is much quieter throughout the telling.

Tally takes easily to the concept of the Summerlands being real—according to her, she grew up on “we-all-come-from-the-Goddess type of matrifocal compound”—but Scylla senses that it’s harder for Abigail, with her no-nonsense High Atlantic upbringing, to digest. She interjects into Scylla’s story only twice: once when Scylla brings up Libba for the first time (“Oh, no, there’s no _way_ it’s Heaven, then. Not if Swythe is there.”) and again when Scylla mentions Raelle finding her parents. Then, Abigail’s voice gets noticeably quieter, and she asks, “So, what—everyone you’ve lost is just waiting there to be found again?”

“Yes,” Scylla says simply. “Everyone.”

There’s a long, long silence that follows. The wind shifts through the branches of the tree, playing with their hair as it passes through. Scylla keeps her gaze steady on Abigail. As good as it felt to have someone hear the whole story from start to finish—as much as it helped, keeping the grief at bay—there’s so much more Scylla wants from these two girls. She’s willing to sit here with them for as long as it takes to get it.

Abigail seems to sense that, too, because she clears her throat and cuts a glance in Tally’s direction. 

“I hadn’t seen Raelle in six months, when she died,” she says. “We didn’t pass Basic—no surprise there, we were a mess—but I got a special dispensation to go to War College . . .” She pauses. “I wonder sometimes if I should have pushed harder. We were supposed to rise or fall as a Unit. Maybe if Raelle hadn’t been sent to the front lines . . .”

She trails off, staring furiously off into the distance at nothing. Scylla watches Tally raise and then lower a hesitant hand, then raise it again and lay it gently on Abigail’s shoulder.

“Hey,” she says. “Doesn’t seem like she’s doing too badly. Partying in San Junipero. Living it up with Libba—” Abigail makes a disgusted noise in her throat. Tally glances at Scylla, and her smile is such a beam of pure sunshine that Scylla can’t help but smile a little in return. “Getting _married.”_

Abigail follows her gaze back to Scylla. “You know,” she says thoughtfully, “when she walked into the mess hall this morning, I swear, my first thought was—”

“Oh my _Goddess,_ is she _ever_ Raelle’s type?”

“Yes!” Abigail shakes her head incredulously. “I don’t know what made me think of her. But just then I thought—”

“Dark hair.” Tally squints at Scylla. “Troublemaker. Not, like, in a bad way,” she adds, all at once looking deeply concerned that she’s offended Scylla. “I swear I thought the same thing.”

“Isn’t it funny.” Abigail’s not laughing, though. She’s looking at Tally, while Scylla looks at them both with her heart beating so hard, she’s surprised that neither of them can hear it.

“Please,” she says, working hard not to let her voice break the word in two. “Will you tell me about her? About her—before, I mean?”

And it’s Tally who answers without hesitation, a soft look in her eyes when she turns to face Scylla again. “Anything,” she promises. “Everything.” 

*****

She thought that meeting Raelle’s old unit might be the end of it—might be enough to soothe her desperate need to know everything she could about the girl she never got to meet.

It isn’t. If anything, it leaves her wanting, _needing_ , even more.

(It’s like part of her thinks that if she collects enough pieces of Raelle’s life, it’ll be enough to build the whole girl. To bring her—not back to life, not that, but back to _Scylla_.)

It’s Tally who has the idea of finding Raelle’s father, and Abigail who uses her newfound clearance to swipe Raelle’s old personnel file. Scylla pours over it hungrily, letting her fingers linger a long time on the attached conscription photo—Raelle dashing in her dress blues, with a dark, seething look in her eyes that breaks Scylla’s heart all over again.

The next time she gets leave, she rents a car and drives all the way to Carolina, to the Cession. To the address listed in Raelle’s file, under the words _next of kin_.

The house she pulls up in front of is shabby, the porch sagging and the roof badly in need of repair; but there are flowers in the window box, and a wicker wreath hanging from the door. It isn’t much to look at, but somebody clearly loves this place.

For a minute she sits perfectly still, letting the engine run as she tries to picture Raelle growing up in this place. 

When a man comes out from around the back of the house, she knows it’s Edwin Collar at once. At first glance he doesn’t look much like Raelle, but when he gets closer she can see the warmth in his eyes, and it’s like looking into hers again, after all this time. 

“Help you with something?” he asks congenially.

Scylla gets out of the car and gives him an awkward little wave. “I’m—my name’s Scylla,” she says, and that’s all wrong; that’s not how she rehearsed it, over and over again in her head, the whole long drive from Fort Salem to Carolina.

But in the end it doesn’t matter, because when she waves, the light catches the ring on her left finger, drawing Edwin’s eye; and Scylla sees the recognition dawn slowly on his face.

“Where . . . ?” he starts to say. For a second, he just looks at her, stunned.

But then, something snaps into place. He knows. Scylla can’t explain how—she figured that this would be much harder to explain to him than it was with Abigail and Tally—but he _knows_ , and the relief that comes with realizing that is almost enough to bring her to her knees.

“You’re _her,”_ Edwin says, breathless. “Oh my God, it’s _you._ ” 

*****

“To be honest, I wasn’t really sure you existed.”

They’re sitting at the kitchen table drinking tea from a pair of chipped mugs. The kitchen looks like a tornado recently passed through it—old newspapers piled high on chairs, laundry gathering in cobwebbed corners. Edwin keeps apologizing for the mess. “Neighbors have offered to help me keep house more times than I can remember,” he said earlier, with a self-deprecating little laugh. “Never see the need for it ’til people come over.”

(Scylla knew, without having to ask, that people rarely come over.)

He’d put the kettle on and cleared off two of the dining room chairs so they each had a place to sit. There were two other chairs already free of clutter—maybe the only unoccupied surfaces in the entire kitchen. But she didn’t say anything about them. She knew who they were for.

Now, she smiles a little at Edwin and takes a sip of her tea. “When did you change your mind?” she asks.

“Honestly?” Edwin rubs the back of his head sheepishly. “Not ’til you pulled up in front of my house.”

“When you saw the ring?”

“When I saw _you_ ,” Edwin replies simply. “I didn’t want to think it of her, but—well.” He shrugs. “Prison can do funny things to the mind. Even one as strong as my Willa’s.” 

He’s been in communication with Willa for only a few months; her letter writing privileges are recent. To hear her claim she met their daughter’s wife—“Willa’d just come back from the dead,” Edwin explains, almost apologetic. “That already was a lot to swallow, and then she says something like _that_ —”

“It’s all right,” Scylla says, because it is. “That’s part of why I’m here now. I wanted—I wanted you to know me.” 

Edwin takes a long sip of his tea, raising his eyebrows playfully at her over the lip of his mug. “Not the most conventional meeting of the parents, is it?” 

(He’s trying to sound teasing, but Scylla knows better. Can _see_ the anguish lurking behind the twinkle in his eye: how desperately he wishes things were happening under different, better circumstances.)

(Scylla desperately wishes that, too.)

“Nothing about us is conventional,” she says, relishing as she always does in saying _us_. “But we were happy. _Raelle_ was— _is_ happy. I thought you deserved to know that much at least.”

“In this place—the Summerlands? San Junipero?” Edwin’s brow is furrowed. “I gotta admit, I’m not really up to date on all that. It’s, what—the afterlife?”

“Something like that,” Scylla agrees.

Edwin nods, but there’s a troubled look on his face. “The afterlife for witches,” he says. It’s not a question. 

Scylla starts to nod automatically, but then stops midway, faltering. 

Because, the thing is, Scylla doesn’t actually know what happens to civilians. She never met any in San Junipero. It’s strange to her now, thinking about it—at the time she hardly noticed, having spent so many years at Fort Salem, surrounded by nothing by witches. She forgot what it was like when she was younger. But sitting here with Edwin now, Scylla thinks, _What if Raelle really never gets to see him again?_

She doesn’t want to believe that life could possibly be that unfair. Whatever feelings she might have held—or still holds, even now—she’s not _so_ jaded that she believes all civilians are truly evil. Edwin fell in love with a witch. Married her, even. And he loved Raelle, his daughter, so much. Protected her and loved her and was ready to sacrifice the world for her, just as Scylla’s parents had.

He was _good_. He _is_ good. Good and kind and so much like Raelle—his laugh, his gentle smile—and Scylla thinks the universe could never be so cruel to keep him away from his family.

She can’t lie though. She can’t give him false hope. “The truth is, I don’t know,” she admits quietly, forcing herself to hold his gaze. “But I think . . . it must be possible. Somehow.”

The rest goes unspoken.

Edwin nods, smiling at her in a way that feels a little like a grimace. “That’s good to know,” he says. Then, switching tracks too abruptly for it not to be intentional: “Speaking of my daughter, there’s a bunch of photos of her around here somewhere. Might have to dig through the mess for them, but. . .”

He trails off as if merely distracted, but Scylla can hear the plea behind his words. _Let’s not talk about this now_ , he seems to be saying. And Scylla gets it. Having lost Raelle once herself, the prospect of never seeing her again—of being locked out of San Junipero—

She knows how Edwin feels. 

(It occurs to her, then, that she and Edwin are very much alike. Possibly in a number of ways, but this is the most important: the person they love most in the world is the same.)

(She also _really_ wants to see those pictures.)

So she doesn’t say anything more about San Junipero. What she says instead is, “Yes. I’d like that.” 

*****

Their fourth Samhain arrives, and Scylla wonders how it’s possible for time to have moved so quickly.

The war is still sluggish, like all wars, and the weeks and months begin to slip into one another until it’s a big blur. An endless cycle of research and experiments and droning meetings in Alder’s war room. It leaves Scylla in a fog; not until the leaves start to change color does she realize that another year has passed already.

She misses Raelle dearly, always, but she’s done what Raelle and her parents have asked: she’s allowed herself to live. To forge new connections with people, to try and make amends. She’s thrown herself into her work whole-heartedly.

On weekends when she’s not exhausted and Tally and Abigail are not on deployment, she finds herself seeking them out. She’s not quite sure if they’re _friends_ —isn’t sure if that word could ever actually pertain to their odd connection—but she likes to believe there’s a camaraderie there.

At times she feels guilty, as if giving more of herself away to others means taking it from those she loves in San Junipero.

It’s ridiculous, really, but still it haunts her; at night when she lies in bed, she rolls onto her side and tries to imagine Raelle lying beside her. She tries to imagine her life, her warmth. But sometimes she can hardly manage at all—can only conjure up a vague _feeling_ , a glimpse of a memory—and it feels wrong. She wants to wake up every day to blue skies and her wife sprawled out in bed, the sheets bunched up around her waist.

(She lies in the dark and wonders how much longer she will need to keep living.)

(How many years until the scales are tipped into equilibrium?)

On those nights she barely sleeps, tossing and turning with a fretful knot in her stomach, full of desperate longing she cannot assuage. 

But on every eve of Samhain, sleep comes mercifully quick. 

And Raelle is always there to greet her with a smile and a kiss.

There’s so much to talk about—they trade stories back and forth as they slip again into their old familiar ease, nervous jitters from a year-long wait melting into giddiness and desperate desire. Raelle tells Scylla about her parents, about Glory and Libba. 

A year earlier, when Scylla told Raelle about her mom, Raelle was quiet for an hour. Scylla sat with her, making them both a cup of tea and waiting for her to talk.

At last Raelle sighed and said, “I’m glad, you know? ’Cause she didn’t deserve to go out like that. Just blown to bits on some beach somewhere.”

Scylla knew that Raelle was thinking about her own death, too. She threaded their fingers together and kissed Raelle lightly on the cheek. Perhaps there were a million pretty words she could have come up with, but in that moment only the pale truth seemed right.

“You’re here with me, now,” Scylla said.

And somehow, it was enough. Raelle kissed her, pressing her down onto the couch, and in the morning when Scylla left—always, always leaving—she looked lighter than Scylla had seen her in a long time. 

“So, there’s this girl,” Scylla starts tonight, as they sip heady cider under the canopy in the alley beside Tucker’s. When Raelle begins to laugh, Scylla jabs her in the ribs with an eye roll. “Not like _that_. She’s just a kid. There’s a clan—”

She explains to Raelle about the Tarim, a pacifist group caught in the crossfire between the Army, Spree, and Camarilla. Alder had them spirited away to America a few years earlier, all part of a so-called humanitarian effort. That was back when she was still convinced the Spree were the great evil of the world—as if they would ever stoop so low as to massacre their own kind.

Khalida is their leader; though she’s only a girl herself, she’s clearly wise beyond her years. Every time Scylla’s in a boardroom with her, she watches Khalida stare Alder down across the table. Khalida has no interest in the military or the Spree; she’s only interested in protecting what’s left of her clan.

Scylla can respect that, even if deep down she believes Khalida _should_ care about the Spree. They’re more closely aligned with each other than with the military. But she’s tired of trying to convince others to care about the future of witches—it’s even harder now, when all anyone can talk about is the Camarilla and the very real and pressing danger they present.

Still, for whatever reason, Khalida’s taken a liking to her. 

“On the first day we met, she told me something,” Scylla recounts to Raelle, who perches on the armrest of the tiny loveseat, toweling her hair dry. “She told me she could hear the ocean around me.”

It both rattled and intrigued Scylla, and the next time she saw Khalida she pressed her for more information.

But all Khalida did was smile at her and say, _You miss her, don’t you?_ before launching into a rather one-sided conversation about the mycelium research that the Necro department was doing on base. Some half-mad idea of Alder’s to create a bomb powerful enough to rid the world of the Camarilla for good.

Scylla scoffed when Khalida said that. “The burning times will never stop.”

And Khalida looked at her as if she was seeing her for the first time. “Yes, that’s right.”

They’d grown closer after that. It was almost—Scylla hesitated to describe it. _Sisterly_ didn’t feel quite accurate. Scylla was an only child, and she never felt the strong bonds of sisterhood with her fellow witches that most others did. There were people she felt affection towards, but outside of Izadora, they were all people who’d been close to Raelle.

But Khalida is different; whip-smart and headstrong. She hates Alder—and the army’s abuse of Seeds—almost as much as Scylla does. And Scylla has found herself growing more and more fond of her.

“She sounds like a cute kid,” Raelle remarks lightly, swallowing a long gulp of cider and wiping her hand on her mouth. She pauses, her smile growing a little wistful. “Always thought it might be nice, you know. Having a family.”

Her gaze wanders contentedly out over the street, watching the people drifting in and out of Tucker’s, but Scylla’s eyes stay on Raelle. Even after all this time—all their years apart, so much longer than the time they had together—there are still so many things Scylla never realized they were missing out on. 

(Like having _kids_.)

“I didn’t know,” she says quietly.

“Hmm?” Raelle turns back to look at he again. Her eyes are bright, her smile careless, but whatever she sees on Scylla’s face makes her sober up a little. “Scyl?”

And for just a moment, Scylla lets herself picture it. It’s not something she indulges in very often—she doesn’t see the point in torturing herself—but right now, she allows herself to look at Raelle and imagine who she could have been, and what she might have had, had she been allowed to grow up. 

“Nothing,” Scylla says at last. She reaches for Raelle’s hand over the table, strokes her thumb across the strong, steady pulse in her wrist. “Just thinking about how much you and Khalida would like each other.” There’s a lump in her throat, but she swallows it down hard. “I really can’t wait for you to meet.”

*****

A decade passes.

The war ends. 

Khalida’s clan grows, but she’s alone now. Her brother fell side-by-side on the battlefield with Abigail, of all people, who mourned him more than Scylla ever saw her mourn anyone.

It’s after that when Scylla tells Khalida that she’s always welcome to the spare bedroom in her apartment. And when Scylla comes home one day and Khalida’s just _there_ , sitting on the floor engrossed in meditation, it feels _right_.

Scylla can imagine Raelle standing beside her, leaning on the kitchen counter with her tousled blonde hair and rumpled clothes. _Nice, huh? Having somewhere to share with other people._ Sometimes, Scylla even pictures her older, face a bit thinner with tiny creases around her eyes and mouth.

 _Goddess_ , how much Scylla misses her.

Her touch. Her smell. Her laugh. She’ll never stop missing her—the longing is as vast and deep as the sea.

This is a _life_ , yes, and she’s happy and grateful. But that part of her is always missing, forever tucked away in San Junipero. A lonely girl with an easy smile and kisses as lovely as summer rain. 

Scylla turns the ring on her finger.

Theirs is an unusual love, to be sure.

But from the day they met, there could never be anyone else—not for Scylla. And in all the endless hours they’ve been apart these long years, nothing has changed. It’s always Raelle, always and always, through life and death—San Junipero, and whatever comes after eternity.

Scylla hangs photos of Raelle—gifts from Edwin—up everywhere in her apartment.

Raelle’s enlistment photo sits on her nightstand; the closest approximation to Raelle that Scylla will ever have in life. Raelle’s bowerbird charm lies beside it, the polished turquoise and metal gleaming every morning in the sunlight. Scylla makes sure to brush her fingers against it when she wakes up.

It’s the little things like this that keep Raelle close, that remind her that Raelle is _real_ and she will see her again.

Once a year, and never more.

Not quite yet.

*****

The next time she’s in San Junipero, it isn’t just Raelle who gives her a warm smile in greeting. Her parents are there, too

And Edwin.

He looks so _proud_ standing there; Scylla’s heart sings at the sight of him. And she sat by his bed the whole time with Willa, before—holding his hands and sending every prayer to the Goddess she could think of. Begging for him to be reunited with Raelle. 

_Even if I never see her again_ , she prayed, _at least let him have this. He deserves it more than I ever did._

She’s crying before she even reaches them.

*****

“Hey beautiful,” Raelle calls, years later. She’s grinning, leaning back against her car, hands splayed on the hood. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”

All these years— _decades_ ; Scylla still can’t believe it, it still feels like a dream—and Raelle still hasn’t lost her playfulness. It’s the same corny humor she shares with her dad, but it’s so distinctly _Raelle_ that Scylla could never grow tired of it.

She smiles and runs towards her, letting Raelle sweep her up into a kiss and twirling her around. Despite how quickly time seems to move as she’s aged, the yearly wait for the next Samhain never feels short. She presses Raelle back against the car, relishing the press of their bodies, the way Raelle’s hands grip her shirt so tightly. 

Whenever she returns to San Junipero, Scylla is young again. She’s never questioned _why_ ; even if it’s only dreaming that makes it so, Scylla likes to believe it’s because that’s how Raelle imagines her: twenty-three and impassioned. 

“Sometimes I feel guilty,” Scylla admits later, as they sit together on the bluffs. “Usually when I visit during Samhain it’s only to see you.”

“Your parents don’t mind,” Raelle says, with such an ease that Scylla suspects that Raelle and her parents have had this conversation before. “They―well, they told me I should make sure that my wife enjoys her holiday.” She laughs, rubbing the back of her neck, as if a little embarrassed by the memory. “Besides, you saw them last year, remember?”

Scylla does; it was the first time she’d seen them in a decade. A beautiful moonlit night, where Raelle dug out a fire pit in the sand behind the beach house and they all sat around it until dawn, drinking and sharing stories. Scylla told her parents all about the war against the Camarilla; about how Sarah Alder was eventually ousted from power; how Abigail awarded Scylla a lofty position in the Necro facilities when it all was over.

She stayed long enough to help end conscription then asked for a quiet retirement, despite Abigail’s protests that there was still great work for her to do.

“There’s always going to be more to do,” Scylla told her, over a glass of whiskey. “But not for me.”

A little house on the beach in Gloucester is where she settled down. Outside of a friendly visit every month or so, it was far enough from Fort Salem that she didn’t feel the ever-present tug of obligation to go back.

Khalida came with her. _Of course_ , she told Scylla. _You’re the only family I have now._

(Scylla nearly cried at the words.)

“Tally’s here,” Raelle tells Scylla, bringing her back to the moment. They’re sharing a blanket, the wind turned cooler. “Came for a visit almost as soon as she arrived.”

Scylla bumps their shoulders together. “Told her where to find you.” 

“She’s older than the last time we saw each other. That was . . . Basic, I think,” she says, with something like sadness leaking into her voice. “I almost didn’t recognize her at first.”

Scylla turns to look at her and sighs softly. Because Raelle isn’t just waiting for _her_ ―she has to wait for everyone else too. And even though Willa and Edwin are both here now, it doesn’t entirely make up for all the years of missing them, of wondering what might have been. It’s hard _not_ to think about it; sometimes Scylla still feels so guilty that she was allowed to have so much and Raelle so little. 

She gently tries to bring Raelle out of it, leaning in to press a kiss to her cheek. “You’d recognize me though, right?”

Raelle laughs and shifts so that they can kiss properly. “Even if you were old and gray. I’d know you anywhere.”

Later, as they drive down the beach in silence, Scylla leans against the window and admires the way the lights of the city glow like fireflies in the night. In a few hours Samhain will be over, and then Scylla will have to spend another long year waiting to return.

How long has it been, since that first time? Years and years now―an entire life.

She’s ready to stop being a tourist. She’s been ready for a long time.

The pull of San Junipero has always been strong. But it’s gotten stronger as of late. 

Only a matter of time, now.

“See you soon,” she tells Raelle, standing by the shore.

(It’s not _until next year_. It’s something much more lovely.)

“Good,” Raelle teases, her eyes watery with tears. “I was wondering how long you’d make me wait.”

They hold hands until the sun comes up.

*****

She knows when it’s time.

She’s been in tune with death all her life, after all.

She once thought herself Orpheus, but perhaps she’s been Persephone all along.

“Ramshorns,” her mother once told her. “We’ve been Necros all the way back to our first foremother. It’s a special thing, to have a close relationship with death. You learn to accept it. To welcome it, like an old friend. Nothing ever really dies.”

At seven years old, Scylla hadn’t understood.

Not even at sixteen, weeping over the cold and still bodies of her parents.

It’s taken a while. But she understands, now.

Death isn’t an ending. It’s merely the close of a chapter.

Khalida sits by the bed, holding Scylla’s hand and murmuring prayers to the Goddess. Abigail hovers in the doorway, watching them.

They’re the only two people Scylla has left―but she doesn’t mind. She’s glad that there’s at least someone to see her off; even if one of them _is_ a high and mighty Bellweather, dressed in finery―full military regalia, boots shining and buttons polished. Forever the picture-perfect soldier. Scylla wouldn’t expect anything less.

“So,” she says, managing a weak smile in Abigail’s direction. “Want me to tell Libba you say hello?”

Abigail laughs, but it comes out like a choked sob. “Snarky ’til the very end, huh, Necro?” She crosses the room to kneel beside Scylla’s bed and bows her head, placing a hand over her heart. “May you journey home and sing the Song of the Spiral with our foremothers.”

Scylla squeezes Khalida’s hand. She feels so tired. 

(She can hear it now; waves crashing on distant shores.)

(The faint scent of pine; wind catching their hair; warm arms around her, a kiss pressed to her cheek.)

“It’s alright,” Khalida tells her gently. Her eyes, as deep and rich as mahogany, are full of understanding. “She’s waiting for you.”

“All my life,” Scylla says.

_There are thousands of girls at Fort Salem._

She thinks of Raelle, leaning against the bar, sporting a charming grin, her hair framing her face―

_I’d have remembered you._

―and closes her eyes.

*****

Here she is again, where it all started.

On the beach.

And right in front of her, standing at the water’s edge―

“Raelle.”

It’s all she needs to say.

Raelle turns.

Even after all these years, she’s as young and beautiful as the day they met, eyes still the same shade of blue, her smile as resplendent as the sun. 

“Scylla.”

And the sound of Raelle saying her name is still the sweetest thing Scylla’s ever heard.

* * *

and they both sat there, grown up, yet children at heart; and it was summer, ― warm, beautiful summer.  
— _the snow queen_ , hans christian andersen

**Author's Note:**

> What started off as a "hey, we should do a collaboration sometime!" turned into a months long project and ended up being nearly twice as long as we originally imagined. It became our baby, and we're very proud of it; we hope you enjoyed it as well. We'd like to thank [jacinto](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jacinto) and [katienelly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/katienelly) for their tireless efforts and innumerable contributions as beta readers.   
>    
>  The Méníshè words/phrases are translated thus:  
> 1\. “Imé yénà." (“My girl.")  
> 2\. “Máà—” (“Mom—”)  
> 3\. “Raél . . . ’Ayás imé wèlá. Éì imé jìpón; azwà; ébù.” (“Raelle . . . I love her. She's my sun; moon; breath.”)  
> 4\. “Lu imé yéné [...] Lu imé kháà.” (“You're my girl [...] You're my coven.”)  
> 5\. “Éì ramé wèlá jìnà?” (“Do you love me?”)


End file.
